With all due respect, sir (meaning none)
by Nobodythestormcrow
Summary: In which getting reborn as Basil of the CEDEF means the start of a ridiculous life, Iemitsu is an idiot, the CEDEF are sane to balance out his crazy, and a prepubescent boy is now the only reason the Young Lion's paperwork gets done. Cracky. Very cracky. featuring repeated assurances of not making anyone Robin, filibustering, and the education of old men through popular culture.
1. Chapter 1

**In which a former SI from the Narutoverse gets reborn into the KHR universe as Basil and doesn't realize it, is perpetually unimpressed with everything, especially Sawada Iemitsu, and can't escape the curse of being associated with a laughing idiot with the survival instinct of a suicidal lemming and the personality of a particularly obnoxious and tasteless comedian.**

* * *

I was reborn but not reborn. That phrase might appear a bit incomprehensible, but there's a bloody hitman called Reborn in this world, so I think that I should clarify. Anyway, I was born and abandoned in an orphanage, and sadly, while I still retain my memories from my last two lives, the absence of a Karatachi constitution meant that I was four when I finally remembered that I was once somebody other than well, a generic boy in a generic orphanage in Italy. I regret remembering. Why? Because I was a girl in my first life, and a girl again when I was reborn as Karatachi Ginkanmuri, imuoto of Yagura, Yondaime Mizukage, and even the Sandaime, despite his cruelty, did not mess with my gender identity (though I did crossdress occasionally for missions).

So, I lived a meaningful life being the Kirigakure Government, and then died a decent death. After that, I found myself here, a perfectly normal boy in a perfectly normal world. I had a perfectly decent life planned out: I would study hard, get scholarships and pay my way through medical school, and then do meaningful work as a physician or paramedic. Or be a lawyer, I had time to choose. Then came a thunderstorm.

Now, as I said, I don't have a Karatachi constitution anymore, so I had a child's poor impulse control and emotional discipline, not to mention a tendency to get cranky when I couldn't sleep. The storm meant that one of my roommates started crying, and soon everyone was crying, so I automatically drew on my chakra for a genjutsu. Now you see the problem. I don't have chakra, so theoretically, nothing should happen. Sadly, that was not the case. You see, when I couldn't get chakra, my body activated the next-best thing, and a layer of Matatabi-like bluebell flames spread over the room, edged and pulled into shape by a fine touch of indigo. That … was a problem. You see, I had superpowers, and unlike in my past life, superpowers weren't normal, meaning that I had absolutely no context for why I was turning into Matatabi when if I had any connection to Bijuu, it would be to Isobu, a turtle with mantis shrimp tails, or Saiken, a slug. Oh, and the kids dropped off to sleep, so apparently, genjutsu functioned.

Take note of my situation then: I was an insignificant child in an orphanage, so I wouldn't be missed if I disappeared. I had a healthy suspicion of orphanages from my past life, given that multiple unscrupulous, vague, yet shadowy organizations had a habit of snatching promising kids from orphanages. I didn't want to be snatched and exploited/brainwashed. The solution I came up with? Run away. And yes, I know that I was being ridiculous, but to be fair, I thought that the streets were at least easier to lose pursuers in than an orphanage that could be watched. So, after a few weeks of planning and experimenting with my powers, I ran away.

By then, I had already managed to find out that the indigo flames provided perfectly decent genjutsu and could even be used to henge inanimate objects for indefinite periods of time, and also to cause physical damage. More importantly, unlike with genjutsu, I had feedback when I used them to cast illusions—there was a possibility of using them to actually mind read instead of merely being an accomplished cold reader who could use iryou-ninjutsu to identify brain activity.

On the other hand, the Matatabi was far more complicated. I could use them to cool things down and drain people of energy—some sort of energy/anti-energy reaction, maybe? And while I had yet to test it, I suspected that since there were connections between energy, force, and matter, I could persuade my Matatabi to do something to actual matter, for instance, depleting nuclear forces and causing some sort of fission reaction.

The combination of Matatabi and illusion-powers, as well as my skill as a shinobi meant that I could break into a dwelling while its occupants were asleep, keep them in a deep sleep through Matatabi and then wash and clean afterwards—hygiene issues solved. I didn't mind sleeping on the floor, and I had a negative sense of presence, possibly due to how low-level Matatabi and indigo drained any attention that was directed to me, so I could slip beneath notice and sleep in public places. That said, I decided that I wanted to stay somewhere interesting (but public), so game of tic-tac-toe had me choosing to hide myself in a library.

Those are the events and decisions that brought me to where I am now, in the back of an expensive car driven by a man who introduced himself as Sawada Iemitsu, newly-minted head of _Consulenza Esterna Della Famiglia_ of the Vongola Famiglia—the oldest and most powerful mafia family in the world, with an apprenticeship, a new name, and an ice-cream/gelato cone.

* * *

Sawada Iemitsu was not a good man. He wanted. He wanted good things, but he was mafia, and all that it involved. Ends and means. He wanted, but his means were mafia means. He wanted to shield his son and wife, and for that, he payed a price. He doomed two boys instead of one. He knew that if he had children, they would be targeted, if only to prevent succession from being fouled. Yet he was expected to produce an heir, and few would believe that he did not have one, so he took certain measures, measures to keep people from searching for his Tuna-fishy, measures to draw the eye away from Japan.

He made "Casual enquiries".

…..

He scratched his head, played the fool.

"Do you reckon that Ninth will require a Sky for my successor?"

"Why?"

"Ehehehe, it's just that Skies are so rare. Ninth lucked out with his genes, got three—four Sky sons. Massimo might inherit CEDEF, but..."

"Yeah, CEDEF should stay neutral. Just Family and not family, you know what I mean?"

"Hehe." A faux-nervous smile. "Yep."

A fluffy haired boy, with uncanny accuracy when it came to guessing when his father would come back, or what his mother would make for dinner, drawing his kindergarten classmates into orbit about him... he had his heir, if—

"What, Young Lion? You have a cub? Who's the lucky lady?"

He smiled awkwardly, half ashamed and chuckled, "Ehehehe... You see..."

Set them on a to-be-created bastard's trail.

He and a few of the most trusted of his people searched for a boy. No particular requirements, just young and bright—he had clawed his way up the ranks, with no history of achievements to his name, another street rat could do the same.

That was when his intuition had prodded him to go to the library. He went, found a random book to read, and then started nodding off because books were boring! Just like paperwork, they weren't for Young, Roaming Lions, but the old ones that stayed at the den. As he nodded off, he felt the creep of Rain Flames, potent but not properly used into his system. His Flames roared to life, burning away weariness as they twined and cried _Mine_! The Rain was a little boy hiding behind a bookshelf, inky-fingered and wide-eyed, creepily silent and just so adorably serious.

The boy's features were plain, average, with the generic sort of likeness to his that hundreds of children shared but which could be interpreted as more with just a suggestion or two. The boy was Tsu-kun's age, but with Rain Flames instead of Sky. He would be a red herring―no one would blame the Outside Adviser for passing his son off as a mere foundling―while being trained as his heir. A position which would breed doubt about the potency of his blood: it was weak enough to not produce another Sky (heir to the Vongola). At the cost of this boy's life, in the figurative sense for certain, and if unfortunate, the literal sense as well.

It was easy to coax the boy out from behind the books, then he made his offer.

"I can't promise that this will be the best offer you get, but it most certainly won't be the worst."

"You aren't going to trick me into becoming your sidekick and making me wear tights and help you fight crime, are you?"

Fight crime? Sort of. "No. The job I'm going to offer you won't be that nice. But you'll learn how to use those powers of yours, and know where to use them."

Threats and bribes were in the tip of his tongue. He could color Cosa Nostra Rainbow, lure the boy in with sweets of the worst sort. He could reveal its dark and bloody side, the crawling shadows that you could never escape, and trick the boy into jumping from the frying pan into the fire. The boy had to know, he had to be able to think that he chose this, had chosen with full knowledge of the consequences when he saw reality and tried to escape, so that he would turn back, knowing that he had doomed himself willingly and was honor-bound to continue.

Yet he must not scare the boy away. The boy might not know it, but asset or threat, alive or dead, the boy would serve Vongola. He didn't want to kill the boy to keep him from being snatched by another Famiglia.

Eyes the blue of where sky met sea held his gaze, considering, wary. A casual defusing of tension was on the tip of his tongue, his face ready to break into the smile that was his normal state, his answer to the Mafia's darkness—"Yes."

The boy approached him. He grinned, relief and victory warring with a touch of guilt, his Intuition singing.

"I think I'll call you Basil!"

Basil, the royal herb. Hatred, or Holiness. A portent. Also the name of one of the great saints. And the boy's eyes narrowed as he hissed, "No shouting in the library!"

Basilisk too.

Further negotiations proceeded in the presence of gelato.

* * *

My new Shishou is as ridiculously dramatic and stuck in personal tragedy as Nidaime Mizukage-sama, and twice as irritating to boot. He also waffled around and tried to mentally assault me, but given that genjutsu-assisted emotional manipulation was pretty much my former adoptive father's modus operandi, it was just a nice bit of familiarity. Shishou also refrained from trying it again after my mental shields slammed down, so, not going to judge. On the bright side, at least I'm not being brainwashed by the government or any vague, yet menacing organizations yet. Sadly, according to shishou, being his apprentice means that back I've come to shadows and spies, so goodbye, dreams of being a doctor, hello again, wrangling paperwork and murder. I miss my nice, sensible, competent Mizukage already.

Shishou brought me to a base where he was immediately greeted by a furious yell of "IEMITSU!"

A blue-haired toddler stormed out of the door, already letting loose a stream of profanity involving politicians, lawyers, demons, and something to do with spices and inserting them into various orifices. Then she caught sight of me, rounded back on shishou, and yelled, "What were you thinking? Kidnapping a boy?"

Two adults, a man and a woman, both in suits, came out from a corridor. The woman turned to me, "Hello," She said gently, "What's your name?"

"Basil." I replied cheerfully, because as far Kiri went, one shed one's former name when one was named something else by an authority. Also, I could see where this was going, and I was not above making shishou's life difficult when he had just tricked an innocent child into a life of crime.

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she looked at Sawada Iemitsu (her boss?). "I see. Do you want to be here?"

I nodded. "Mister Sawada found me in a library and offered me a job. He also told me that he would teach me about my powers. And," I grinned, "He promised that I won't be fighting crime in a leotard!"

There was a silence, and the heretofore silent man groaned, slapping a hand over his face, "Those are some low fucking standards, sir."


	2. Chapter 2

**In which we get more Batman references, Basil's lack of presence rivals Canada's, and CEDEF are spy-y. And Iemitsu is terribly over the top while everyone is Unimpressed with his Drama. **

* * *

Shishou—ah, given that I'm not supposed to know Japanese, I suppose it's master—is wailing under the combined weight of three unimpressed stares. "But he's so cuuuute! And he's ninja-scary too! Oregano, you like ninja-scary, right? Basil's absolutely ninja-scary—he even snuck up on me without me noticing, come on, if we don't snatch him up the Varia will, then what will happen to sweet little Basil?"

The woman, Oregano (I was beginning to sense a theme here), _looked_ at him, "He's either '_ninja scary_' or '_sweet', _being both is a contradiction. And how did you get him? Did you snatch the poor boy off the streets? Are his parents looking for him right now?"

"Did you kill his parents on a mission, Idiot-metsu?" That was the toddler with the mouth of a sailor.

"Nooooooo!" Master—that sounded wrong, sir's better—caterwauled, "I'm better than that! Stealing isn't maannnnlyyyyyyyyy!"

"That lion cub you took from the zoo, sir." The man, Turmeric, countered flatly. "The time with the Cloud Arcobaleno's motorbike. The Mafialand fiasco where you started a feud between two of Vongola's rival families because you took one of their underbosses' prized Damascus dagger."

"Those were strategic maneuvers!" Sir was projecting his misery all over the place, and it was hurting my eardrums. I thought for a second—sound was vibration was energy, so… I manipulated Matatabi over my auditory organs. Aah, blessed silence. Mumble, mumble, sir was still making Nidaime-sama seem sober in comparison. What was that commotion?

I drew back the curtain of silence. Sir was still screeching, but this was more panic-filled. "Basil? Basil? Where are you? BASIL!"

"Still here, Mr. Sawada." I said politely. Suddenly, there was absolute silence. I checked to see that it wasn't Matatabi accidentally flaring up, but no, everyone was stock still and focused on me.

"Not invisibility." The toddler confirmed. "The kid was visible all the time, we just stopped noticing him. Got me too."

So the toddler was powerful. I could see why she was angry all the time now—nii-sama had been permanently stuck at twelve and he hadn't been much cheerier. "It's always like this." I clarified politely, "People always ignore me unless I try to get their attention, or if they think I'm supposed to be there."

"Allow me to clarify some things." Oregano broke in calmly. "Basil, you are an orphan, and Sawada picked you up from a library you had been living in, correct?"

I nodded, "Yes, Miss Oregano."

"Agent Oregano or just Oregano please, Basil, we're colleagues now. Can you turn invisible?"

I shook my head. "No, Agent Oregano. I'm just good at keeping quiet and not being noticed. If I try, the people's eyes slide off me, but I still cast a shadow."

"Alright," Oregano said, "Now, do you know what Sawada wants you to do?"

"Learn under him and spy on the mafia for the mafia, as well as providing an outside perspective on mafia plans so that people don't get tricked because they don't realize they can 'get a turkey to distract the goose to distract the dog to distract the guard to let someone steal something without destroying a building even if building-destroying is fun'." I paused, "I think I quoted sir verbatim," then I hurried on, earnestly and a touch panicked, "but I wasn't paying attention to sir's complex metaphors but I know what he meant I promise!"

Oregano acknowledged me with a nod of her head. "Do you understand that you will be making people's lives miserable and that people will make your life miserable too?"

I nodded, "Yes. But sir said that he wasn't going to make me fight crime dressed as a traffic light so I think I'm going to be okay and don't worry I won't feel too bad about making people's lives bad because they aren't going to be very good people and sir said Vongola is the nicest of the families and mister Nono is a good man who wants to make people's lives better too!"

Which, by the way, is nothing but lies. I've apparently been tricked into joining this world's equivalent of Konoha, and a lifetime of shinobi-hood and a lifetime of tropes before that means that I'm justifiably suspicious of anyone over thirty, let alone sixty. But I'm a good liar, and since I'm pretending to have Robin-phobia, I might as well go whole hog, and act like an adorably gullible child along the way.

Tumeric glared at sir. Oregano looked like she was suppressing the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. I know that specific look because I wore it most of my adult life while dealing with kunai-happy idiots and swordsmen-reviving teenagers.

"Do you understand that you'll be dealing with this idiot day in day out?" The blue-haired toddler asked bluntly.

"Yes—" I clapped my hands over my mouth in horror, "No—I mean yes—I mean no, sir isn't an idiot, I mean that I'm going to be okay working with sir."

Hopefully, wide-eye worship would guilt sir into behaving.

Turmeric gave me a considering look. "Alright Basil, if you're sure, welcome to CEDEF. Sorry kid, it's too late to back out now. I'm Turmeric, my partner's Oregano, Iemitsu's our head. We're all trained for the field, but Lal Mirch is our heavy hitter. She may look like a baby, but she's older than Iemitsu, and she's one of the strongest Flame users in the world. Trust her, respect her, and listen to her—it will save your life one day. Take everything boss says with a grain of salt, but despite appearances, boss is good at his job. Now, I'll get you cleaned up and then Lal and Oregano will test you to see what you're like right now while sir gets you your slops."

Slops—clothes—mainly naval usage. Hint of origin? "Okay." I chirped in agreement.

* * *

"So, how'd it go?" Iemitsu was serious for once.

Lal Mirch shrugged from where she was perched on the shelf. "The boy's fit, but reasonably so. Good reflexes, but he's clearly untrained—flinched like hell at the gunshot and reacted to my yelling like a civ. It checks out with his story, and yeah, he's acing stealth at superhuman levels, but no other indicators of abuse—he seems to just like being quiet and he's a bit proud of how nobody notices him."

"Oregano?"

"How did you even find this kid?" The Mist muttered, then continued at a brisk pace, "Basil is bright, nice personality, curious enough and willing to learn. He's far too talented with language and literature than he has any right to be, writes at the speed most people read and reads at the speed most people think—faster, even. Decently well-rounded education, not a genius but he can trudge his way through most things. He functions under pressure, might act panicked but doesn't freeze or go into hysterics. I've tested his Flame manipulation. His control is extraordinary and he's creative enough to use basic physics, but he doesn't realize what he's doing. If he's a plant, he'd have to be some sort of deaged one."

Iemitsu nodded. "Then there's the last test."

* * *

I looked at the suit laid out for me. It was purple. "Sir." I said nervously, "I know that I said that I didn't want to be Robin, but that doesn't mean that I want to be Joker either."

Iemitsu adopted a whining tone. "But Basil, if you don't wear something bright, I'll never be able to find you!"

I took a step back from the monstrosity. "Sir, with all due respect, if you make me wear that, you will never be able to find me."

Also, I'm disappointed with the name of my powers. If they were fire, why couldn't they set the bloody thing on fire?

It took a lot of wide-eyed protests and me trying to discreetly hide behind Lal Mirch (she was just as terrifying as the Kiri Academy's teachers) before Oregano rescued me with a dark blue suit and matching pants. I changed. The way it felt was awkward, since I wore shirts and jackets in this life and kimono or flak jackets and armor in my former one, and as a teenage student in my first life, I didn't exactly have many occasions to wear anything other than baggy uniforms.

I fumbled with the tie. I knew how to tie the neckerchief of a gakuran, but not the long strip of cloth. Besides, what shinobi wore a noose about their neck? I ended up threading the material through the buttonholes in my new shirt.

Turmeric took one look at my buttoned-up mess and untied tie, and sighed before helping me arrange the cloth and layers of clothing around me properly.

When he finished, I felt nice. A suit felt more about power and professionalism than masculinity, as far as I was concerned, so it wasn't that great a dissonance from the grace and elegance of a well-honed blade that I associated with being female in my past life. I could deal. Hopefully, puberty wouldn't give me any problems.

I pushed my hair back from my eyes and smiled brightly at Iemitsu. "How do I look, sir?"

He ruffled my hair. "Great, kid! You'll grow up to be just as handsome as me some day!"

Said the man with even worse facial hair than the Nidaime.

* * *

"The boy definitely doesn't know how to wear a suit." Turmeric reported. "He either tries to pull the sleeves down or push them up, and the same goes for his tie. Not only does he not know how to tie one, he isn't used to its presence, so he keeps fidgeting with it. I'm pretty sure that Basil hasn't had contact with the mafia before, sir."

Iemitsu brightened like a puppy. It was disturbing, but workplace hazards and all that. "Then Basil's one of us for sure!"

Turmeric winced. "Basil's had a hectic day, so I'm going to let him wait till tomorrow to fill out his paperwork. That okay with you sir? And if you want to enroll him in Mafia school, you'll have to make arrangements soon."

**So, vote! Do you want Basil to suffer through school for the third time in his/her life? Or are you kind enough to spare the kid that? Anything you want to see? Suggestions and prompts welcome. Let me know in the comments.**

**Next chap: In which Iemitsu starts suspecting that he picked up the antichrist.**


	3. Chapter 3

**One serving of Iemitsu suffering, as requested.**

**In which Basil accidentally implies Antichrist-hood, and no one cares as long as Basil is better at them at making Iemitsu do paperwork. AKA, I need a plot device for making Basil get into progressively more ridiculous situations, so here, have a canonical bad-luck magnet.**

Breakfast was a mess. Lal Mirch and I sat on stacks of the plentiful folders, Sir sat at the head of the table, while I sat opposite Turmeric besides Oregano. I quickly realized that this was a strategic decision to ensure sir had as few chances of hurting his paperwork as possible. I approved.

At the moment, I was telling them about the orphanage matron. Lovely lady, quite kindhearted. "She said that I was left on her doorstep with a ring tucked into my swaddling, but I think she was lying. The ring is like one of those novelty items you buy in the carnival, you know, a parody of the ones that try to pretend they cost less than they do by saying that they're just something-something-nine instead of a nice round number. I think she bought it when I was very young to try and comfort me, but it's a bit obviously not any sort of legacy, given that it's quite literally stamped with '999'. It's also a plain band of metal that fits me."

Absolute silence. Oops.

"Basil," Oregano said in a strangled sort of voice, absent-mindedly keeping a hand on the chocolate syrup to keep sir from "accidentally" tipping it over, "Would you mind letting me see it?"

"Sure!" I chirped, and pulled the ring from my pants pocket. "I know that it's probably a cheap and useless, but still… I thought there was…you know, a chance that it's real, so…I couldn't make myself throw it away."

That turned tragic pretty fast.

Oregano took the ring, and closed a hand full of Indigo—gah, Mist Flames over it. There was a pop of sulfur, and then Sir successfully dropped his form into his coffee.

"Oops!" His grin belied his words, "Looks like I can't fill that out now!"

Lal Mirch kicked the whole pan of sizzling sausages into his face. "Shut up, Idiotmitsu!" She snarled, following up with cutlery and crockery after Sir dodged, "The scallywag's got a Hell Ring and it's helping you. What does that say about you, you offspring of a penguin and a puffin's rear end?"

"Aah, I see!" He grinned with false stupidity. Or real stupidity. It didn't matter. "When's your birthday?"

"The matron found me on the doorstep on June sixth, so that's my birthday." I replied helpfully.

Sir screeched. "666 for the sei-sei-sei! My poor Basil-kun is the Antichrist! I knew it was too good to be true! I can't laugh at Nono about Xanxus anymore, I have my own hellspawn! Noooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!" He wailed dramatically, and in the process, successfully knocked the bottle of chocolate sauce over the rest of his papers. Clever man.

Turmeric sighed stiffly, and put a calming hand on Lal Mirch's arm. Oregano took a composed sip of her coffee, then turned to me, giving me my ring back. "This is a Hell Ring. We where they come from or how they work, but they're the oldest examples of flame weaponry known to exist. The only thing we're sure about is that they are powerful, using them comes at a cost, and anyone who uses them needs Mist Flames. The Sei-sei-sei can be used to bring bad luck, with one turn of good luck every 666 bad ones, making it one of the most difficult and counterintuitive rings to use."

"Oh."

Lal Mirch crossed over the table. I hastily snatched my last waffle from the plate and took a large bite, just in case she stomped over it. "You have a Mist secondary. That's good. Most of the CEDEF have impure flames, and too many of them have fucking Mist flames, so you'll fit right in. Keep the Mist under wraps, your Rain's strong enough to hide it. Oregano's a Mist-Cloud mix like me, but you're a Misty Rain, but sadly, that excuse for scrap metal's chosen you, so you're stuck with the barnacle."

Turmeric had politely but forcefully gotten sir to clean up while we were talking, and now the two men joined us. Sir was sobbing. "My poor Basil-kun's going to be taken away from me!!!!" He cried. "It's too early! Lal, why must you be so cruel?"

"You must receive training to use your Mist flames." Turmeric clarified, "And Mists are marked by student-teacher lines. Oregano is officially a Cloud, as you can see from how she's using duplicated files to deal with Iemitsu, so she won't be recognized as your teacher. Lal's a known Mist, so you can openly learn from her. Given the circumstances, it's best if you stay under our supervision, so you won't be going to school. While you're under Lal's tutelage, you'll be styling your hair like her to identify yourself as your disciple."

I blinked. "Alright." I supposed that I should wear my hair loose with a lock in my face to honor the Sandaime if I was being honest then. Lal's messy short hair was an acceptable compromise. Then I widened my eyes in exaggerated shock. "Sir's making Oregano use her Flames like that?" For good measure, I threw in a trembling lip and a few tears welling up, "Oregano's being exhausted by sir because sir is," I adopted a devastated demeanor, and whispered, "lazy?"

Sir rushed to comfort me, spluttering denials and promises that he would do better, he didn't know how much he was hurting Oregano and that he was really sorry and going to fix it etc.

Tumeric ignored him and pulled a thick metal-backed binder from the leather workbag underneath his chair. "This is yours now. You'll spend the day tailing one of us learning the ropes, training with flames, or going through boot with Lal."

"Okay." I shoved my last bite of waffle into my mouth, wiped my hands, and got up. "What am I supposed to do now?"

"Follow me," Turmeric said, "Today, we're getting you your ID and officially adding you to the files a full member of the CEDEF."

I did. Sir seemed to have been left with the washing up as Lal stomped off and Oregano walked away with her own pile of paperwork. Serves him right.

_**With All Due Respect, Sir**_

**OMAKE**

I stared at Sir incredulously. "I've read _Lord of the Rings_, Sir. I know better than to stick my fingers into strange pieces of jewelry."

**Reviewers have asked for making Iemitsu suffer and Basil meeting Xanxus, as well as Iemitsu's disaster levels being found quite wanting compared to the bloody murder and mayhem of Kirigakure's administration. That'll happen in time. In the interests of making Basil meet canon characters instead of making a plethora of OCs, I'm just going to make Basil interact with mafia as part of his job, so, no school, just work, meaning that Basil will be meeting teenager-Xanxus. Oh joy. Also, teenage Squalo, his Varia counterpart. One has the lung capacity for loudness, the other has the lung capacity to motor mouth legal BS for hours on the end and talk Sawada Iemitsu into doing work.**

**Keep the ideas coming, guys.**


	4. Chapter 4

**In which Iemitsu is an ass, Basil is nonplused, and the Varia and CEDEF have an interdepartmental rivalry.**

Sir did not improve in temperament as time progressed. In fact, I was fairly certain sir has been presenting his least objectionable face to trick me into his service. Alas, I fell for the trick and am now obligated to clean up after sir. On the other hand, I'm not resigning. Employer aside, CEDEF's a delightful place for a former kunoichi to be, with a high-quality education, lovely colleagues, and plenty of legality for me to take advantage of.

I had begun to develop a pattern. I ate lunch with the Oregano, Turmeric, and Lal Mirch. Before that, sir joined us for breakfast, and I divided my mornings between shadowing sir and learning the ropes from Turmeric and Oregano. Lal had commandeered my afternoons, while I sat down with Oregano and Turmeric to familiarize myself with the theoretical knowledge required of CEDEF's highest echelon in the evenings.

"The CEDEF is a primarily an intelligence organization, though we do field combat operatives. Therefore, of the approximately eight hundred employees of the CEDEF, forty percent are embedded in other divisions to surveill and inform, fifty percent are sleepers in other famiglias, while the remaining ten percent are either analysts or field agents."

I made a note in my giant binder. "Sir is a field agent then?"

Turmeric winced. "Technically, he's the head, but if you ask me, he's a far better field agent than head."

"He fancies himself James Bond." Oregano said flatly.

"Got it." I nodded. "Sir's head because he's a...cello—no, that's nowhere near important enough an instrument, a cielo, a Sky, but he should have been kicked somewhere less administrative."

"Precisely." Oregano grimaced, " However, his combat abilities are why he's head, as he is, technically, the second-most powerful man in the Vongola. Anyone who's in the upper echelons of the Vongola's Sword and Shield can function in either division."

I opened my binder to a new page. _Sword Shield _I wrote at the top. "Sword and Shield?"

"Varia." Oregano said the word l$ike she did _Iemitsu_ and _Reborn_. "The Varia is the Vongola's Independent Assassination Division, as we are its External Intelligence Division. It's focus is on wetworks, and everything else aside, they are Quality. They are also insane."

"CEDEF's Varia's mirror in more ways than one." Turmeric elaborated, "Both heads are expected to remove themselves from Succesion, both organizations can stand independent of the Vongola and provide reserves in time of crisis, and they each conform to a stereotype."

"We don't conform to a stereotype." Oregano hissed, "We are _professional_. Compared to the idiots who straddle the line between genius and insanity, of course we appear dull, dour, and homogeneous in our suits and ties. Unlike us, the Varia is a colorful organization with a _large budget that isn't spent on idiotic things _by a Sky under the direction of what he _claims_ to be his Hyper Intuition. CEDEF is where the sane go, and Varia is Vongola's private bedlam."

"That was uncalled for." Turmeric looked at his partner severely. "The Varia is a highly respected sibling organization, and quite frankly, I don't see how the Varia are more mad than the main family."

"Indeed." Oregano agreed, and pulled out four dossiers. "Apparently, the Ninth only has the ability to have sons, and every one of them are worse than the last, no matter the order."

"Massimo's the ugly man who actually wants to inherit the CEDEF, right?" I asked.

Oregano opened one of the four. "That"s Massimo. Why do you think he's ugly?"

I pointed to the photo's scruff. "He is attempting to imitate sir's facial hair." I said brightly, "The only redeeming quality about sir's choice of beard is that sir wears it."

A thought popped into my mind. "If Ninth's sons are just all less than sensible, even the one who was raised in an alternate environment, does that mean it's genetic? It might be dominant gene on the Y-chromosome. Ninth's descended from Secondo, so he should have inherited the Y-chromosome from the paternal line. That means that if he names a daughter his successor, our Eleventh will be normal!"

I grinned brightly.

Turmeric put his head in his hands. "Sadly, kid, Eighth was a woman, but she still had Ninth."

I pouted. "Then Varia and CEDEF?"

"CEDEF have more say in Vongola affairs, the Vongola commands Varia, but can't hold sway over the External Consultancy, the Varia beats the CEDEF through superior quality."

"I see!" I chirped, "So it's rock-paper-scissors! CEDEF beats Vongola because paperwork beats rocks, but rocks beat assassins' scissors, and the assassins beat CEDEF. It makes sense!"

WHEN I HATE MY JOB

AND

SIR

AND

OTHER PEOPLE

Sir led me to his office, patted my head and ordered, "Stay, Basil!"

Then he ran off. I had no feasible alternative but to stay in sir's office. So I did. I sat behind sir's desk, on the giant leather chair (ooh, comfy! And it had a lean-back feature so I could curl up in it), and started to poke the mess on sir's desk. The sprawl of papers seemed saturated with Sky Flames, and purred when I nudged them.

I texted Oregano for instructions, and she told me to hold down the fort until she could get to the office. That was an invitation for trouble if I ever read one, and as of to confirm it, my discount ring started growing heavy on its chain about my neck.

The paper spread over sir's desktop and onto the floor yowled. I blinked. If they were going to behave like a cat-honestly, sir was taking the "Young Lion thing too far—then I would treat them like one. Matatabi was a plant with properties similar to catnip, so was logical that it would drug the cat. I needed an even coating... I smiled. I forceded the Bluebell Flames to follow well-worn paths. They licked over the whole rubbish midden. The yowling turned into purring, which slowly became slower, softer, lazier. Aha. Gotcha. I snatched a report from the pile. It tried to cut my hands, but it was too...I really had no other words for it, high, to succeed.

I read it through, identified its partner, and combined the two.

BANG!

I looked up. A trio of men were escorting sir's copycat into the office after destroying the doorknob and denting the wall from the force. The requisite forms for that would be: Report of Incident, Report of Damage, Report of Instigators, Report of Motive, Requisition of Supplies, Requisition of Technician, Reciept of Object, Reciept of Individual, Confirmation of Completion. A long list, you may think, but trust me, it's one of the shorter ones.

"Head—!" The leader of the trio abruptly cut off as he saw that I was not, in fact, sir.

I could see that Massimo di Vongola had barged into CEDEF headquarters, casting our neutrality into doubt, hampering our work, and connecting this front organization with Vongola. He was an idiot. However, he might be representing Vongola Authority, so I had to tread carefully. However, I was the tenth generation CEDEF head-to-be, he wasn't confirmed. I set down the sentient paperwork, and walked in front of the desk to let my badge and blue tie show. "What is the situation?"

My badge marked me as CEDEF, my tie marked me as a Guardian. "Signore Massimo breached security—"

"—I didn't, there wasn't any security to breach, haha!"

"Wounded CEDEF operatives, got a few of them Flame-drunk—"

"Compromised classified information"

"They should thank me for the break!"

"Poaching"

"_Bonded!"_

Everyone was rowing, tempers were running high, and the door was yet to be fixed. Oregano's ETA was at a minimum, ten minutes. I had to deal with this myself. I could tell that they were going to move onto to schoolyard insults soon, and then there'd be too much trouble with disrespect of authority and an internal enquirer into treason, but at least pointy things weren't coming out like in Chigiri's administration. Lal said that I had a habit of concentrating my Rain to lethal degrees, so, for diplomacy's sakes, I had to find a way to soften the delivery.

The yelling was only increasing in pitch. I resisted the temptation to express my displeasure. I stuck a hand into the air. For Cousin Nagato. RainThey slumped to the floor, suddenly jelly-legged.

I stumbled at the expenditure, then bowed in apology. "May I have the situation in clear, concise words, my good sirs?"

**More to come! Now, quick question for native speakers on a grammar point: can I say "he was very rich, and very misery"?**

**Feel free to send in prompts, requests, or advice!**

**Thanks for reading,**

**Stormcrow.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Thank you all for your advice on the grammar!**

**Continuing where the last chapter left off, in which Iemitsu is not present but still an irresponsible idiot, CEDEF do not like Massimo, and there's the threat of a masquerade ball.**

"ACHOOO!"

After sending the flame active of the trio of agents off to brief Oregano when she arrived, I had tamped down my Flames until they resembled a dreary drizzle—a more affordable expenditure for me. That allowed them to stand instead of lying on the floor. For once, I admired sir's choice in furniture or the absence thereof—there were no chairs for them to sit, so the three had stand, equal.

I was too short to loom over them properly, so I took a page from Lal's book and climbed onto the table. The papers, sensing that I wasn't trying to deal with them anytime soon, covered my shoes supportively. It said something about sir that his Konan-like abomination was nicer to me than he was.

"Now," I said politely, "Would you mind explaining, good sirs?"

Massimo sneezed, snot dripping from his nose. One of sir's most outdated reports tried to climb up my leg. So apparently, they would rather sacrifice themselves than be dealt with properly—clearly sir's terrible influence. I obliged it by offering the paper to Ninth's son, since it was printed and would be legible even after being covered in mucus (it will take more than sir's paperwork has to win against me).

While Massimo blew his nose, the two CEDEF shivered their way through a terrible tale of Massimo barging into HQ while shouting "Iemitsu, my man!".

Massimo strenuously objected by saying that he was here to deliver a message, was rebutted by a shriek of "There are protocols for that!"

Man after my own heart, that CEDEF.

"And what, pray tell, is that message?" There in the doorway, standing arms crossed, face set in a frown. I breathed a sigh of relief. Oregano had arrived.

"There's going to be a masquerade!" Massimo di Vongola produced a cream-colored card embossed with the Vongola crest. "Iemitsu's invited, along with you sticks in the mud. Don't just come like a stick though, add some flare!"

I let myself off the desk softly. Sir was absent, I was exhausted, and an idiot was attempting to order me around. I let my rain concentrate itself around Massimo in one last dunking, and then cut off the energy supply. "Thank you, Signore Massimo, for troubling to bring us the invitation yourself!" I smiled brilliantly, and handed him some obligingly willing-to-be-picked-up empty forms. "Would you mind helping us clear these up then?"

I looked at him, expectant, because clearly, if he was so _enthusiastic about helping, surely, he wouldn't mind helping some more and making his trip even more worthwhile._

"Be as that may, Basil," Oregano said, "You need to come back with me. I'll leave Bay in charge."

"Horseradish, Ginger." Oregano addressed the two CEDEF agents who had suffered the drizzle. "You should keep Massimo here until he dries off. It would be an embarrassment if the CEDEF managed to let a cold hurt one of Ninth's sons.

I cheerfully skipped to her side, and we closed the door to Horseradish and Ginger gleefully advancing on a sopping wet Massimo.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

"Well, fuck." Lal's well-articulated statement summed up the situation quite clearly.

"Iemitsu's run off to play James Bond, so he probably got wind of it through his hyper intuition and left us with the fucking ball while he gets to play secret agent."

"It'll be something related to the Estraneo." Turmeric groaned, dropping his head into his hands. "We're supposed to be preoccupied, so they won't be expecting Iemitsu, so it's a perfectly decent plan that excuses him from attending. On the other hand, that means we have to."

"Doubtful." Oregano said flatly. "Knowing the odds, Iemitsu will pop up right before the party with an armful of ridiculous costumes. We need to find something decent to wear. And the party will be a Vongola Style Party, which means that we can't even mass order costumes, since we need to be able to hide weapons in the things."

Looks like I need to relearn how to sew as a matter of survival. Just because I sat in on Nuibari's classes once didn't mean I was a tailor, so why was fate making me do that? (Total lie. Mei made me sew every design she wanted. It was an abuse of power. An absolute abuse of power.)

"First things first." Lal snapped, "Affirmations. We are CEDEF. We are the last bastion of sanity in an insane world. We will not be allowing the madness from the rest of the Family to infect our ranks. No matter how much Massimo tries to wrangle his way in, no matter how much people try to shove that walking talking Molotov cocktail Xanxus on us, we won't accept. We'll stand strong and support each other in the face of the temptation of agreeing to shut the naggers up. Done. Let's start planning."

Unspoken, was the mutual agreement to skin sir when he returned.

**Prompts welcome!**


	6. Chapter 6

**In which Iemitsu's paperwork is as sentient as Crowley's houseplants, Basil is the word root of basilisk for a reason, and the 666 continues to be misnamed.**

While Oregano and Turmeric were moderating an underbosses's meeting, Lal and I were given the task of managing sir's affairs.

I locked the doors and the windows. Then, following Lal's advice, I taped every rack and crevice to the outside shut, taking especial care with the ventilation grate and the crack under the door.

I then turned and put my hands on my hips. "You can stop playing dead now, there's nowhere to run."

Yesterday, I had temporarily beaten sir's sentient monster into submission with a thorough soaking of Matatabi. Sadly, it was quite thoroughly imbued with sir's particular brand of Sky Flames, which had imparted upon them sir's, ah, clownish personality, to put it politely. If I wanted to ever get any work done, I had to assert my dominance over the paperwork first, preferably by making them fear me far more than sir's any action could remedy, and assume dominion over the beast for eternity.

I bared my teeth. "It may be above my station to threaten sir, but while you are sir's paperwork, you are not shielded by the same courtesy. So, let's talk."

I was taking a page from _Good Omens_ and Crowley's treatment of his houseplants. "Of ourselves I understand that you'd do anything to avoid proper management, up to and including self-immolation. But we can't have that, can we? Of course, since right now, there is nothing you would flee from more than the pen and the folder, I believe that my first step is to remedy that."

I smiled sharply. The papers flapped. How rude. I strode over to sir's admittedly well-stocked bookshelf, and then saw a flash of white. I snatched it. _Report: Xanxus di Vongola, Acquisition of Rain Guardian_ it read. It was dated June. "Who follows this?" I asked pleasantly.

Every piece of paper flopped facedown onto the ground. I tried to pick up one of them. Every sheet shifted. "The hard way it is then." I muttered.

Luckily, I'd come prepared. I pulled a handful of black binder clips from my pocket and waded into the mess. Every page I caught got weighted to the ground, while ones that went with already-clipped ones got clamped together. That went there, those went together, atrocious handwriting, obviously sir's—an outdated memo, tuck it in my pocket. RD file, something about Dying Will? Clip those together despite their squirming. Finally, I found my prize. _Political implications of Superbi's allegiance_. I stomped on it as it tried to escape, then put it together with the first report.

"As you see." I looked at them sternly, "I will see you ordered, one way or another. Resistance is futile and will only make your companions suffer as well. Have any of you learned your lesson?"

Somehow, the scattered paperwork gave the impression of whimpering.

There was a knock on the door. I sighed. "We'll continue this afterwards." Then I unlocked the door and let the pair of people in.

"Sir. Madam." I nodded politely and retreated behind the desk. I had grown up dealing with Chigiri's administration, I knew when things were about to turn violent.

True to my predictions, not five sentences in, the two had started fighting each other. I took cover behind the desk. Ten minutes, tops, then I could come out again. There was a stationary page under the desk. Having nothing better to do, I read it. It was a Varia memo. Tyr (the head?) was the sender. He was requesting intelligence for an assassination and he was coming...today. The accursed piece of scrap metal in my pocket was extruding smugness. I risked Mist Flames to bring the relevant reports to me. Then, I pulled out sir's memo, identified an alphabet, and then began the arduous process of forging sir's reply.

The sounds of fighting stopped. I poked a head out from behind sir's Vongola Quality Desk. There were a few scorch marks, some burnt paper, but no blood. Excellent, better than what I had to deal with as a girl last time.

"Please, madam, alter your hold so that both of you may speak freely." I requested softly.

She obliged. "Now, please give your separate accounts of what brought you here." I opened my binder to a fresh page. I was going to take notes to make sure they didn't start another argument.

We finished up a hair before Tyr was due to walk through the door. The woman was a teacher at the "Mafia Academy" while the man was the parent of a boy who had broken loaned CEDEF property. The woman was the one who borrowed it, but the man's son had broken the items with a gun he'd gotten from his father. I suggested that the school would pay for damages while the son would make up the value with hard labor.

Then entered Tyr. I pulled out the completed forgeries. "Here they are, sir." I said, rummaging aimlessly beneath the desk to hide any tells that he might have picked up. "Sir was rather unpunctual, so the writing is messy and it isn't printed, but hopefully, it's legible. I clarified anything ambiguous."

I clenched my 9–66 in my hand. If this works, I thought darkly towards it, it will be the greatest of misfortunes, for if I succeed once, I will be stuck with sir's work on top of my already not-insignificant pile.

Mist drained into the ring. "I see." Said Tyr. "I'll call you if there're any problems."

"Yes sir." I replied. What the hell. It worked.

**Any ideas for the CEDEF masquerade costumes? Keep in mind that everyone wants them to be as normal as possible and just ridiculous enough to pass muster with Iemitsu. Leave an idea in a review, be it a theme or an individual costume. Or just general story ideas. Everything's welcome!**


	7. Chapter 7

**In which Iemitsu returns, and his Terrible Ideas are shot down. Basil develops a taste for hazardous substances (You know how people make jokes about coffee being rocket fuel? Turmeric's pick-me-ups do that. Literally.)**

**Special thanks to everyone who commented. Your ideas will be used!**

Sir returned, and there was much rejoicing. Not. Given that his presence was the equivalent of a feckless ball of chaos thrown into the nice, orderly world of the CEDEF, we did not appreciate the disturbance. Sadly, we appreciated the lack of sir's buffer even less.

In sir's absence, Turmeric had been approached on numerous occasions by individuals attempting to ascertain whether I was a harmonized Element or not. It was disturbingly like the nobility of Mizu trying to court Mei. Naturally, Turmeric rebuffed them, but I was beginning to see the appeal of schadenfraude when I imagined the idiots trying (and failing) to deal with sir.

Now that sir was back, people stopped trying to poach me (honestly, as far as they knew, I was a six-year-old with a penchant for paperwork. What were they going to use me for? Gophering?). That didn't mean that things were looking up. In fact, sir's presence meant that I was even more sleep deprived than usual. Sir was trying to take the opportunity to induct me into the Cult of Espresso [sic].

And it was working. I stared, dead-eyed at the mountain of papers (nice, non-sentient ones) with a cup of coffee clutched in my right hand and a fountain pen in my left. "_Neither can live while the other survives._" I hissed murderously.

The coffee was plucked out of my hands and replaced by a giant mug. "That's quite enough coffee for you," said Turmeric, "Here, have a tisane instead."

The translucent liquid was a dark greenish-brown. It smelled sharp. I drank. Fire running in my veins and burning in my eyes. Blood boiling into steam coming out of my ears. It felt like I had just drunk magma. The kick. Wow, just wow. Far better than coffee.

Sir started sobbing. "WHY?!?" He wailed. "Why?!?! Why must you betray me so, good Turmeric my man? Basil! Forgive your shishou! I wasn't able to protect you from Turmeric's evil German tea-drinking ways, and now you have been corrupted!"

"It is of no consequence, sir." I replied respectfully. Then I examined the tea. "This is Flame-infused, isn't it, Turmeric?"

"Yes. As you know, turmeric is orange-yellow. It's a reference to the fact that I have a combination of Storm and Sun flames. Red and Yellow combine to make orange." He produced a tongue of dual-toned fire, then melded it into his own mug.

"Iemitsu's sense of humor hasn't improved with time." He added dryly.

Sir's ululation ended in the background as he perked up. "Don't worry, Basil! I will make it up to you! Ta-da!"

From under the couch, he pulled out a garish green...thing. Shaking it out, sir revealed that its true form was a tube of neon green and yellow fabric. "Since Basil-kun is a cute little Basilisk, I thought that Basil-kun should go as one!"

This was worse than the ultraviolet suit. "There's no crown." I criticized carefully.

"I thought of that!" He grinned. Too bright! "Which is why—"

He brandished a bonnet. "—I made my own alterations! See? Now we match! You have a crown, and I have a mane!" A Konoha-brat-orange feather boa joined the frilly headpiece.

"No." Oregano had come into the room, and was glaring, arms crossed, at Iemitsu. "Basil and Turmeric worked very hard on the masquerade clothes. You aren't using these half-assed rags."

"But they aren't cuuuuute!" Sir wailed. If it wasn't for my Matatabi, I would've gone deaf by now. How did my colleagues manage? Oh right. Turmeric's Sun could heal, Mist and Cloud would propagate the cells in question, Lal was a Mist-Rain mix like me.

"Sir." Turmeric coughed. "You haven't even seen them yet."

I took it as a cue to adopt a hurt expression. "I spent a lot of time on them." I agreed sadly, "And Turmeric did too."

That was enough for sir to agree to see our handiwork, so we tromped off in a merry band to find Lal and the costumes, which she kept under lock and key so that sir wouldn't sabotage them.

Our theme was bugs, a pun on electronic bugs and surveillance, not that anyone would appreciate it.

Oregano had gone for a traditional Cloud aesthetic—dangerous and elegant. Her armor/costume was composed of a matte purple underlayer covered in tight-fitting plates of exoskeleton made from a combination of Kevlar and ceramic plates, with glossy purple-blue silk stretched over them for the dragonfly look. In short, we actually made a catsuit into a practical piece of equipment. The wings were detachable wire and gossamer pieces that managed to disguise the fact that save for cosmetic peculiarities, the Dragonfly was combat wear.

Turmeric's Cicada leaned more towards the defensive. It was bulkier, and he designed his own costume to be less abstract in its evocation of its insect, so there were more decorative parts on his costume. His wings weren't detachable since they just ended up lying close to his back.

Lal and I shared a beetle theme, since the shell made me look harmless, while its easily detachable nature was attractive to her. We matched.

"We haven't managed your costume yet." I said guiltily, "But I thought I should ask you for your opinion first, sir."

Sir pouted. "But Basil!"

I pulled my trump cards. "I want to show solidarity with Oregano and Lal and Turmeric, sir."

Sir hesitated. I went for the kill. "Green and yellow is Robin. You promised I wouldn't be Robin."

Sir sniffled. "All right then, Basil-kun." He said, mournfully.

I lit up like a magnesium flare. "These are your options, sir!"

I opened my binder to the proper page.

I showed sir the list. "What do you want sir?" I asked brightly. Payback was sweet.

* * *

OMAKE

* * *

Basil!!! Did you get that ideas from popular culture? That's it! No more modern culture for you, you'll be corrupted and grow up too soon!

**In short, Turmeric's Storm Flame's Poison Cooking combined with his Sun Flame's Activation Aspect to make caffeine-less monster drinks. Don't spill them, they've eaten through metal. ****Iemitsu's costume suggestions will now be decided by vote, or in the absence of votes, me rolling a die. The options and suggesters are:**

**1\. Locust (Basil)2. Cockroach (Turmeric)3. Mosquito (Oregano)4. Louse (Lal, because in Chinese, 虱子, headlouse, is a pun for 狮子, lion, and Lal knows Fon)**

**Tell me what you want in a comment!**


	8. Chapter 8

**We got two votes for locust and one for cockroach, with Louse emerging as winner with three votes! We also had two additional write-ins, one each for worm and butterfly.**

**The butterfly suggestion was from Remzal Von Enili:**

**_You should probably go with moth or butterfly for lemitsu._**

**_Sky flames do allow for flight, its still a insect, and its poisonous.It'd be pretty easy to work his flame colors I to a butterfly design. Plus butterflies are attention grabbing like the big idiot._**

**Credit goes to them for the butterfly thing in this chapter!**

"No." We said in unison as sir produced a giant bundle of leafy greens, which he claimed to be the perfect finishing touch to our costumes. Sadly, sir did have a point about us not having masks. Sir was quite cheerful about that.

Lal glared at her pepper plants. I wasn't sure whether it was the capsaicin or the fact that the long dangling red peppers emphasized the smallness of her face. Turmeric wasn't faring much better, considering that sir had basically taken two whole plants, cleaned up the roots, and stuck them on a mask, pulling a few leaves down so that they concealed the upper half of Turmeric's face. Sadly, ginger was ginger. Oregano took pity on him and used Mist Flames to do something about the spiciness. That meant that Lal's grumpiness wasn't because of capsaicin. Good to know.

The less pungent varieties of spice that were mine and Oregano's namesakes also had leafy stalks that were easily woven into the masquerade masks,so for once, I was the lucky one. And if that wasn't a sign that my 969 was up to something, nothing was.

Still, Sir was suffering along with us. "Lal!" I cried, making sure to sound very distressed. "Sir doesn't match!"

"But I don't have a special name!"

As if I was going to let sir get off that easily.

"That's alright!" I chirped with good cheer. "Sir's called the Young Lion, right? So sir can have something lion-like!"

"Excellent idea." Oregano smiled darkly. "A lion cub would go well with the ensemble."

Oregano snapped her fingers, and a baby lion appeared on sir's head. It promptly bit sir's ear. Sadly, it didn't draw blood. Sir was just that good, it seemed. Pity. That didn't stop sir from yowling worse than the cat.

"You know," Turmeric commented mildly, "I think that there's something very wrong with this picture. The cat is on the louse, instead of the louse being on the cat."

I nodded mutely.

The only reason sir agreed to one of the four we suggested was because Turmeric suggested that sir could go as a butterfly instead, since butterflies could fly, and Sky Flames could allow for flight, and because butterflies were poisonous, attention grabbing, and easy to abstractify.

Sir was dressed as a headlouse, and per his request, it was in Kyuubi Orange. Curse him. My finely-tuned Survival Instincts from a lifetime in the Elemental Nations started screaming danger the moment I caught sight of the Talk-no-Jutsu Orange. The worst thing about sir's apparel was that the legs on the thing kept knocking everything over. Sir used it to great effect in destroying more of his workload.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

We finally got bundled up into the car, at which point Lal started quizzing me on the history of nautical warfare. Mostly about the giant guns. I let myself answer on autopilot while watching the sunset through tinted windows.

"What do you do if Massimo tries to talk to you?"

"—huh? Hide behind sir and try to lose him. Also dump vinaigrette into my salad bowl. Massimo hates sour stuff, so we won't be compatible for harmonization."

"You're oversimplifying." Oregano cut in, "But that'll work for the meeting. Alright Basil, do you have your binder and your book?"

"Yep." I nodded cheerfully. "_The Damnable Life and Deserved Deportation of Giotto Vongola, as Chronicled by his Most Good and Admirable Successor, Ricardo di Vongola._"

"Iemitsu can't keep you from reading anything, you know that." Oregano replied, shooting the back of sir's seat a glare.

"I do!" I said earnestly, "But it's alright! After sir banned me from modern works, I pointed out that his actions would stymie my growth, so sir took me to the Iron Fort's archives. We didn't have much time, but sir's Hyper Intuition worked very well so even though he picked the first book that came to hand from the shelves, it's a good read!"

"Really." Oregano's voice was flat. Not that I blamed her, sir really did not have good taste.

"It's actually just intricately worded insults and accounts of Giotto failing to live up to his legend." I replied conspiratorially. "But the handwriting is beautiful, and you can tell that Ricardo's words came from the heart. There was this incident with seafood. Giotto somehow spent hours looking at something Ugetsu made and not being able to refuse or eat it, so he kept trying to play for time until Ricardo ate sashimi instead. It reminds me of the story you told me of si—"

"—WE'RE HERE!" Sir cut in hurriedly. "No more talking about Giotto and Ricardo, Basil-kun, you weren't alive then!" Sir sounded like he was trying to convince himself. Honestly, the Antichrist thing was a joke. His joke at that.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

CEDEF policy when it came to socializing was to enter discreetly and behave as if we had always been there. It saved on politics and enabled sir to draw attention away from us all (sir was capable, which was just disturbing).

I made my way to the snacks table, looked at the minuscule plates, and decided that nope, I was going to take advantage of being a kid for once in my life and ignore proper etiquette. I flipped my binder onto its side and started to load the wide expanse with sushi and melon and small bread slices covered in odd toppings. Beets and cream cheese, for example.

A hand grabbed my wrist. I was dragged behind a potted plant. Pink hair. Green eyes. "How did you know that the plates were poisoned?" Hissed the teenage girl.

Ah, here comes the bad luck. My terrible piece of scrap metal cooled down smugly. I was throwing it into a furnace first chance I got, mark my words.

**So, Basil's met Bianchi, and will be running into the rest of the Vongola and affliates's teenagers soon. Luckily, Turmeric's given Basil a minor immunity to poison cooking.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Massimo continues to be prevented from appearing, Reborn engages in malicious slander, and Basil starts to deal with Iemitsu's alcoholism by offloading it on other people. Kiri-nin, that one. Special thanks to Master_Torch_Master for the plates and saucer banter!**

"I did not realize that there were plates." I replied blandly, "Given their size and utility, I assumed their function to be decorative."

The girl glared, "That wasn't an answer."

Her hand brushed one of my pieces of prosciutto. An attempt at poisoning, perhaps? I snatched my binder away, "Hey, get your own!"

"I'm not having the poison wasted just because you got lucky," she hissed, "So you can either get a mild poison, or you can switch to using the plates!"

"It's not my fault that your plan is so shoddy!" I snapped back. "It's not as if people would make that connection just because I'm not using one of those saucers--I wouldn't even get noticed in sequins!"

"What sort of bullshit is that? I turned and you were using that binder, plain as day."

Oh right, the bad luck charm. "That was due to extenuating circumstances!"

"Not an excuse."

"I'm not poisoning myself."

"Tough luck, because you aren't walking around like that either."

She had something she wanted. I had something I wanted. We could help each other. Self-imposed Antichrist instincts flared up, "Then let's make a deal." I smiled brightly. "I'll get a handful of biscotti to nibble on and won't touch the buffet table, and in exchange, you make sure that Massimio di Vongola gets into an embarrassing incident the moment he tries to talk to me."

Massimo would not expect the interference of a third party, and I was perfectly willing to sic some bad luck on him for disrupting my life.

"Deal." The girl said. She stuck out a hand. "Bianchi Falcone."

"Basilicum."

Then she paused, "Wait, what does Massimo want with you?"

I grimaced, and pointed to my (Daemon-Spade-hair) blue carapace.

"No way. You're the Rain that Squalo was talking about?"

Squalo, meaning shark, Harmonized with Xanxus di Vongola, the Ninth's bastard son. If I found out that he was Hoshigaki Kisame, thrice-accursed traitor, I was going to boil him to death, diplomatic consequences or not. One glance with my huge blue eyes and Sir would hide the body.

* * *

"Mayhaps?"

"Nono was correct in assessing Basilicum to be the optimal choice for Xanxus di Vongola's Rain Guardian." Squeaked the bush.

I sacrificed my dinner to slam my binder into the pot. Zetsu had made me into a rather botanicidal individual. Might be why I could threaten paperwork--paper was, after all, made from plants.

Out jumped an infant. Orange hat ribbon, lizard on shoulder. Renato the Reborn, World's Greatest Hitman, Lal's fellow Arcobaleno. He dodged my attack with laughable ease, before landing in front of us. Bianchi seemed liked she was in the throws of some divine ecstasy, so no help from that quarter. "After all, Basilicum, like Xanxus, comes from the streets, can manifest visible flames despite his young age, and is a long-distance fighter. They share a mutual desire not to harmonize and more importantly, both of them are bastards."

"I protest this besmirching of sir's character." I recited tonelessly.

"BASIL!"

…That wasn't sir. "If I may be excused." I muttered. "Remember our deal please, Bianchi."

I fled. My carapace was eye-catching, but in the riotous mess of colors, it would not stand out. There was a resounding crash behind me, but I didn't turn to look as I rushed towards Sawada Iemitsu. Well-ingrained instincts had me snapping my binder out to catch sir's dropped drink before it could splash onto his conversation partners. Coincidentally, that same action toppled sir onto the ground, where he flailed, the movement magnified by his tick legs. I ignored the other two men in favor of redirecting sir to tend to Massimo so as to prevent him from becoming an embarrassment--ah, to prevent him from becoming more of an embarrassment.

I bowed. The two before me were not flamboyantly dressed, just slightly more archaic in fashion than the norm.

"Hah!" Laughed Xanxus, who had added what must have been at least half a bushel of feathers to his everyday attire. "Getting rid of both idiots in one blow? Nice one, trash."

"It is an honor to be so praised." I bowed shallowly. I addressed Squalo. He was wearing a pirate hat. "May I enquire as to your preferred fruit basket contents?"

"VOI!!! What are you talking about? Are you as crazy as Sawada-scum?"

"It is not my place to speak for sir's sanity, or judge it in relation to myself." I replied stiffly. "However, were I to speak of my sanity, I would say that I have ample sense, albeit flavored by a pinch of madness. Such is the prerequisite of being sir's subordinate. But even so, I would not wish to associate myself with the Vongola Main Family. You are extraordinarily brave to sound those waters, and I thank you for becoming the Requiem Rain."

Sensing Xanxus' growing ire, I hastened to add, "No offense meant to you, but I would rather preserve my innocence in regards to what Massimo gets up to behind closed doors."

"You're the CEDEF brat?"

"I have the dubious honor of being sir's apprentice, and the rather more definite honor of being sir's heir."

"Yeah," Squalo snorted, "Massimo moans about that all the time. Good job on that, kid."

Definitely not Squalo then. Also, note to self, instigating the twin imbeciles' suffering endears me to most people.

"That said," I remembered sir's attempts to drink himself into a stupor to avoid paperwork. "If you find melons unwelcome, would you prefer alcohol? I have yet to take inventory of CEDEF cellars, but I am quite certain removing their contents from sir's reach will be a mutually beneficial act."

Massimo's Bianchi-induced accident had apparently been the signal for everyone else to start fighting. Squalo jerked me off to one side as he deflected a knife with his sword. "Learn to dodge, CEDEF trash." Xanxus growled as he forced me down and out of the dangerous airspace where everything from bullets to breadsticks flew.

"I'll take that as confirmation then." I muttered. I was by the bar, which was sacrosanct, and also where sir was quaffing beer. There are two windows of time when sir can be kept down. First is when he is in a drunken to the point of immobility and yet before he loses consciousness. "My apologies, but I must take my leave."

They had thrown themselves quite cheerfully into battle. Madmen.

**Next, Iemitsu's hangover, and Basil gets lied to about languages.**


	10. Chapter 10

We left the party well before midnight, pleading my bedtime. The next morning, after I entered the kitchen, I found that my youth had been a great blessing last night, namely that unlike the two missing males, I was unhungover. Baked beans simmered in a pan, while bacon and eggs were frying in a skillet. I helpfully made coffee and tea, while Oregano plated breakfast. Lal was hidden on top of the fridge, not that I should be able to notice that.

"Sir was drunk yesterday." I reported, a glass of orange juice in hand. "I managed to force sir to catch his paperwork up by a month."

"Lucky ass." Lal grumbled, and I jumped in response, "I can't get drunk, and Oregano doesn't like how it inhibits her mind, so we have to deal with bullshit stone sober. He'll be hungover this morning, so we get another window of time in which he is sufficiently incapacitated. Oregano?"

"I am not dealing with that." She replied darkly. "I washed him and put him to bed last night, I'm not looking at him today if I can help it today. Besides, I'll have to retrieve Turmeric from whatever one-night-stand he went home with."

Turmeric. One night stands. As the norm. Well, he needed to drop the stoic façade and destress sometime.

"I can!" I was, naturally, peppy and starry-eyed, not yet disillusioned about sir's nature.

"That could do." Oregano said thoughtfully. "Finish your breakfast first, Basil. More jam?"

Oregano's plan was obvious: stuff me full of enough sugar to make me hyper, then set me on a hungover sir. I was very much in favor of it.

* * *

Lal taught me how to pick locks with Mist Flames after breakfast.

"It's a matter of belief." She told me bluntly. "If you believe your key will unlock the lock, then it will. The rest of the matter is holding the form in your mind and keeping your flames under your control."

"Alright." I nodded, and poked a tendril of the indigo through the lock she had produced. Tumbler, tumbler, twist--curses, dropped that.

"Stop it." Lal hit my hand. "You aren't making lockpicks, you're making a skeleton key. Try again. More confidence. Imagine Sawada's watching, and you don't want him to start trying to 'help'."

"Sir isn't--" I protested, as I automatically straightened and twisted the key that I had subconsciously formed. The lock clicked and opened. A pox on sir and his ancestors, all the way to thrice-accursed Giotto who was terrified of raw seafood.

"Practice, and then unlock Sawada's door. I'm off to see if he's broken anything valuable yesterday." Lal stomped off, not that I blamed her. Given my experiences interacting with the rest of Vongola, I foresaw a great depletion of available gifts for the youngest Vongola Sky.

* * *

I threw open the curtains, letting glorious sunlight shine onto sir's comatose form, and like the child innocent of the horrors of overdrinking that I was, cried out joyously, "Wake up, sir!"

There was a whimper from under the covers. "Merrrrcyyyyy!"

"Nope!" I said cheerily, dropping onto the bed. "It's time to wake up! Oregano said that she won't stand for seeing more than one naked male body a day, which I think is a threat to emasculate you, so, I'm here instead! Do you want breakfast?"

I was milking my sugar high for all it was worth, and being as disgustingly perky as possible. I tossed sir's bathrobe onto the bed, then went back to bouncing off the walls while sir dressed.

I then slammed a tray full of paperwork in front of sir. "These need to be completed posthaste, sir. Breakfast is greasy, so it must come after, lest it stain the paper and necessitate a rewriting. Lal hasn't taught me how to keep dishes from going cold, so you should hurry!"

I plunked down beside sir, keeping up a stream of cheerful chatter until sir finally picked up his pen just to get me to shut up. As a reward (not that he realized), I poured him a cup of water, and provided useful assistance. I could do no less as sir's faithful apprentice.

Until, "Basil."

"Yes, sir?"

"What is this?"

Sir seemed to be quite efficient, given that he had gotten to the bottom of the pile, where I had snuck in the requisition form for the cellars. Turns out that hunger, in combination with a hangover sapping his will to resist worked wonders.

"I want to send a thank-you present to Signores Xanxus and Squalo."

Sir started wailing about how he had failed be since he wasn't my favorite person anymore, and that he would make it up to me, he promised. I sincerely doubted that.

"Signores Xanxus and Squalo were kind enough to keep me safe, and their Harmony gave others more things to focus on in your absence than the emergence of myself." I gave him an unimpressed look.

Sir looked like he was drowning in the depths of despair, but he signed anyway. Does this count as terrible parenting?

I brought sir his breakfast, then sat facing sir, hugging my knees.

"Basil!" Sir declared suddenly, "You're six! That means you should have something cute to play with! Since I haven't been a good teacher, today, we're going to the zoo and getting you a pet! "

I hoped that he meant the two things as separate ventures, but given Turmeric's horror stories, odds were, sir meant that he was going to force me to take care of something he stole from the zoo. Sadly, I had no way of stopping him.

"Alright, sir." I nodded assent. Given that sir was the norm for the blood of the Vongola, I pitied Squalo. Maybe a nice seventy-proof whiskey? I could only hope that sir's hangover didn't clear up.

* * *

Unfortunately, that was not the case. After breakfast, sir became terribly energetic. Sir packed lunch, showing that he wasn't a complete fool and wasn't about to risk death by poisoning, accidental or deliberate. Then we went down to the garage and into a nice, generic car after I talked sir's ear off for wearing an A-shirt and got him into more decent casual clothes.

"You should learn some more languages, Basil!"

"Yes, sir." I remembered what Lal had told me about Mist Flames. "But can't I just get Misted into having those languages?"

"Nope!" Sawada Iemitsu went into his lecturing mode. "You are CEDEF, Basil-kun! That means that you're an agent ! To be an agent, you have to blend in with a culture. If you get everything downloaded into your head via mist flames, then, not only are you cheating, which is unmanly, you don't get to experience and understand the culture of that language! For instance, if you learn Japanese, you'll know how kanji function, their evolution through the ages, and why they function like they do. Take hamaguri, 蛤 , it's composed of the kanji for bug and the kanji for close, so, as you can see, the bug that closes is the clam, since the ancient Chinese considered clams to be wugs. See ? You wouldn't know that if you were cheating! Shishou will teach you all about the profound depths of Japanese culture as he teaches you the language! "

That was a combination of surprisingly reasonable advice and complete and utter rubbish--dear kami, even brief exposure to Xanxus has left me copying his speech patterns. I'm going to pretend to take his word as gospel though. It might guilt sir into being nice to me, and if not, it'll be an interesting experiment in how outrageous sir's lies can get.

"Wow!" I looked up at sir with starry eyes, "I'll learn quickly sir! I promise! Can you tell me more about Japan?"

"Hehe!" Sir scratched his head with one hand, leaving only his left on the wheel. I surreptitiously took hold of my seatbelt, even if intellectually, I knew that as the exponentially more annoying version of James Bond, sir did have decent drivign skils. "I grew up in Japan, Basil-kun, so there's so much I can tell you! This will be important for your Mafia education as well, since Vongola Primo retired to Japan after he founded Vongola. Your shishou is descended from him!"

If that was true, then I would have to look at Ricardo's biography in a new light. "But Giotto was scared of seafood!" I protested, "Ricardo said that he named Vongola Vongola because it was the most intimidating thing he could think of! Why woud he go to Japan, the iconic food of which is sushi?"

Sir laughed nervously, "I'll tell you another time, Basil-kun. Let's talk about Japanese customs first."

I listened with false eagerness as sir described my former life's world, it's Kabuki plays and household implements--wait a second. Mizu was a feudal state. Japan shuld be modernized with the rest of the world by now. Sir was lying again. But since I was already taken by the lie, I couldn't show that I had seen through it without showing myself to be more than a six-year-old boy. Curses. I can't wait for the zoo. Then I could behave knowledgeably about the natural sciences. Normal children liked cute animals, right?

Sir bought us both icecream once we got into the zoo.

"Can't we get just get a dog, sir?"

"We aren't getting a canine!" He told me decisively. "Dogs can be scary."

If so, he didn't act like it as we passed dogs on leashes, leaning down to ruffle their ears while chatting with their owners , whose eyes slid over me.

I kept a tight hold of sir's shirt, just in case my lack of presence started acting up again. We meandered through the park as sir made increasingly outlandish suggestions.

* * *

"Do you want an owl, Basil?"

"They're nocturnal creatures, sir. Caring for one would alter my sleep patterns and inhibit my growth." I conveniently left out the fact that some species were diurnal.

"How about an alligator?" Sir asked as he pointed to what was clearly a crocodile.

"No, sir. It will grow indefinitely and I will become depressed when I realize it will outlive me." My tone was dissonantly cheerful.

"A fennec fox?"

"It looks a bit like a chihuahua." I lied.

"I know! Let's get a lion!"

* * *

Definitely not. I was beginning to realize, once again, that sir's determinded obliviousness meant he was getting his way, no matter what (unless I was about to pull out the big guns, but those were either reserved for emergencies, lest Iemitsu develop a resistance to them, or the sort of things the use of which on non-hostiles was Not Done).

So, I wanted something that sir wouldn't make me keep in my room. Something nice and trainable and sensible, so that my time wouldn't be a complete waste. Preferably aquatic, to tie in with the fact that Matatabi was called Rain, and associated with the sea.

I held great respect for Uzumaki Naruto's first sensei, Umino Iruka. "Can I get a dolphin, sir?"

Sir's face split into a blinding grin. He picked me up and swung me in a circle. "Terrific idea, Basil! You're so smart! A dolphin is nice and friendly, just like you, and dolphins can kill sharks, so it'll protect you against Squalo!"

I assumed that I was expected to have a rivalry with Squalo since, in some mirror dimension that the Mafia believe to be reality, he usurped my place in the Vongola. I could only muster up respect.

In retrospect, a dolphin did represent what I was in this life--friendly, playful, utterly adorable, and a vicious killer underneath, as well as a foil and counterpart to Squalo.

Sir kidnapped a calf, and through means which I will not describe out of horror at their eldritch nature, managed to deliver it safely to a giant saltwater pool in the CEDEF headquarters, where it swam, unperturbed by its sudden relocation.

I slipped into the pool too, and it nuzzled me with surprising affection, given that we were strangers.

Sir grinned at my expression. "Well, Basil-kun, what do you want call your dolphin?"

I already knew what I wanted to call it. "How do you say dolphin in Japanese, shishou?"

"Irukachan, Basil-kun!"

I giggled as the calf splashed water onto my face. "Iruka it is then, sir!"

Sir drooped at that, but I wasn't going to be tricked into calling Iruka Iruka-chan. Poor thing needed whatever dignity it had left.

**Iemitsu's usually a morning person, so holding coffee hostage doesn't work, especially since he's usually the one to wake the whole household/upper echelon up with his terrible singing in the shower. Iemitsu is a halfway decent teacher when it comes Bond stuff, and Basil is a living surveillance device: plonk him somewhere, and he'll pick up all the info within earshot since people don't realize he's there, meaning the more languages Basil knows, the better. Basil is from the Elemental Nations, so he sometimes slips into believing Iemitsu's descriptions of modern Japan, since that's what he remembers a Japan-esque place to be. Iemitsu doesn't want to get a dog because he is trying to be a decent father for once in his life and not make Tsuna deal with something that traumatizes him. Iruka is like Basil, harmless at first sight but a vicious killer inside. He will grow up to be the mafia dolphin that chases Tsuna around when he learns how to swim.**

**Anything you want to see? Any funny ideas? Any weird ideas? Leave a review!**


	11. Chapter 11

The idiomatic desk did not exist. I lay on my stomach on a Matatabi-burned iceberg and worked from my all-purpose, all powerful binder. The patented CEDEF solution to dealing with sir's obnoxious sir-ness was to spread the effects out among us, meaning that since I was part of the rotation, I would join in the straw-drawing for different aspects of sir's work to manage. In this case, it was my turn to balance the books.

There it was, the garish spandex of the costume that shouldn't be spoken of. I crossed that out and added it to sir's personal expenses. Cheap beer--sir. Expensive beer--Turmeric. Anti-tank weaponry--Lal. A laptop--surprisingly, that was Oregano's purchase, and there was an additional note about learning coding. Oregano was dramatically reinterpreting the meaning of Cloud. I approved.

"Irukachan!" Sir yelled from the side of the pool. "Time for dinner!"

It was, by the way, neither the time for dinner nor the food for dinner, and Iruka wasn't called Irukachan either. Iruka swept upwards in a gust of water, keeping himself upright with beats of his tail, then chittered angrily at sir, bit sir in the face, and dove back down, soaking sir with a splash of water. Given that the pool was saltwater, Iruka was literally rubbing salt in sir's wounds. I sighed and conjured up a Mist-fish. "Iruka." I called, "Sir's purpose in life is not to be food for thee. Don't bite him, you'll get sick." "(Or worse, become like him)

I tossed the fish. Iruka caught it in midair, sending up a spray of water as he landed. Upon reflex, I called up a shield of Matatabi, and the water fell in an array of frozen crystals without dampening the papers in front of me. "Sir." I got up, balancing on my floating workstation. "What is thy will?"

Sir was apparently playing upon my expectations, since I was then caught off guard as he emptied a clip at me, and in response, I dove straight into the water, bluebell flames around my binder leaving a shell of ice in their wake. That was the opening salvo. Iruka pushed me upwards into the air, and that gave me the leverage I needed to land on the side of the pool. Sir pulled a pickaxe (!…?) out of nowhere to sweep at my head, so I threw myself into a roll, stopped and reversed just in time to dodge the metal head slamming down where my shoulder would have been, an action which left me so close to sir that I had gotten inside his guard, so I sprang up to hit him with the ice-encased binder in the moment's opening I had. To my surprise, it connected, but given that I was getting ready to dodge another blow, I hadn't committed to the strike so it wasn't even going to leave a large bruise, but luckily, since I was planning to kick off out of range using sir as leverage, it was easy to aim the foot I was raising in the general area of sir's crotch, throw myself into the air in a backflip, and land, balanced and wary, out of reach but ready to continue.

"Stand down, Basil."

I did.

Sir was no longer obliviously cheerful, and I could spy a glint of orange in his eyes, "There's going to be a major operation in two weeks. Should you choose to take part, you will spend these weeks in intensive training, then join in the fighting, and be required to kill. Can you shoulder that?"

I can give you a soliloquy on reincarnation, Hidden Village indoctrination, war, and the effects of such on one's values, but I'll keep it short. I am a daughter of the Bloody Mist, so the idea of me balking at carnage was offensive. As Basil, I justified that willingness as the desire to please that an orphan would feel.

I nodded. "Of course sir."

"Change." Sir ordered, "We depart for the meeting in twenty."

I obeyed, scrambling back to my room to pick one of the identical daily-wear suits from the stock in my wardrobe, brushing my hair to match Lal's and, after a moment's hesitation, pulling a few strands forward to hang over my right eye. Honor thy parents, as they say.

* * *

We may have departed for the meeting, but sir, in a rare display of sense, chose to kill two birds with one stone by having us arrive early so that I could be presented to the Ninth.

I was divided about that. On one hand, this man was the son of Vongola Ottava, the legend, and he had ruled the Vongola without much mishap, but on the other hand, he was the father of Massimo-who-did-not-understand-the-meaning-of-no, and half his sons were incompetent. Also, he was old. I did not like old people. Most of the problems in the Elemental Nations could be traced back to an evil elder, and you didn't get to keep your seat at the head of the most powerful mafia family in the world by giving out candy. Alright, you could, but the candy would have to be laced with something powerful. And people wouldn't trust you enough to accept it most of the time anyway.

So, since I was at least a half-decent shinobi, I chose to assume a ego-stroking persona. Here's a word of advice: never, ever expose yourself to excessive archaic language without mitigating the damage with modern syntax, otherwise, you'll start speaking Shakespeare on instinct, which, luckily, served my purposes. By switching to third-person, modulating the volume of my voice, and making a few changes in posture, I can give off a very will-less impression, which in turn would absolve me of any suspicion of treason. Growing up in a totalitarian regime does teach you some tricks tree-hugging doesn't.

Sir led me through the Iron Fort, and this time, my ring didn't act up, so attention slid off me like water off a duck's back, until we entered a honest to kami throne room. Sir disarmed, so I copied him and set my ever-present binder down (did that mean that my binder counted as a weapon? If so, this world has issues), then followed sir's lead in taking slow, ceremonial steps towards the seated boss of the Vongola, kneeling, and kissing his ring. I then rose and took a step back, meeting his eyes with a passive gaze.

"Iemitsu," Timoteo di Vongola greeted, "And this is your young apprentice, Basilicum?"

Sir grinned, "Yep, this is my boy. Say hello, Basil!"

"Salutations, sire." I said, flourishing into a Victorian-era bow.

"Iemitsu," he frowned, "Taking advantage of this boy's trust to destroy his understanding of language is not amusing at all."

While I ah, disapproved of sir, it was my obligation to defend him and his reputation. "'Twas this one's choice to learn an aged tongue, sire. Twists and turns and long-lost speech make for a challenge the giving voice to thoughts, thus teaching this one patience."

I was, by the way, making it up as I went along.

"If you say so." Ninth smiled warmly. "Iemitsu tells me that you are a very talented Rain, young Basil."

"This one is honored to be thus praised." I smiled shyly, while distancing myself from the irritation at having the epithet Rain attached to my talent. I wasn't just talented as a Matatabi-wielder. Sir-wrangling should be first on my list of skills.

"You are a strong Element, young Basil," Said the Ninth, "But an unharmonized one. Do you know what that means?"

"This one has received an explanation." I said, "But this one is young and lacking in worldliness, thus this one fails to understand the connection betwixt harmony and loyalty."

He sighed, "Imagine, you are tired, lost, despairing, but then, you feel a call of home and belonging. Wouldn't you answer? Then your heart would turn, even if your mind wills otherwise. Then your flames would follow. Then if the Sky you follow is not Vongola's, you would be compromised."

I frowned, "With all due respect, sire, this one's mind is this one's own. Should any dare suborn this one, then betwixt these two a corpse shall be made, afore this one should suffer such unwanted authority. Then this one will go to therapy in reaction to suffering an abusive relationship."

Ninth winced, "It's easy to say that now, Basilicum, when you haven't felt the call of harmony. But you are powerful, and will only grow more so, and seek more strongly the shelter of a Sky."

"This one," I replied steadily, "Would wager self and soul upon this one's will."

"Will you?" He asked, wistful.

"Yes."

Rich orange lit the room, pure and warm, like the crackling of an old yule log on Christmas Eve, with mulled wine fragrant by the hearth. Won't you come and sit by the fire? The call of home and hearth, the call of safety and security, the call of purpose and prosperity. Shelter from freezing winds, a roaring fire at my back. Family, no matter laughter or tears, and peace. Oh, and I was vaguely aware of the fairground cotton candy doused in brandy that was sir's particular brand of disturbingly whimsical sky, and how a few strands were attached to my metaphysical identity. Well, sir had similarities to the Nidaime's particular brand of crazy, so… I supposed I could accept that.

So, I didn't even celebrate Christmas. My major holiday of choice was the New Year. Cue vaguely Kirigakure nationalist sentiments. "This one stands by the words uttered." I said stiffly.

Timoteo di Vongola smiled nostalgically, "I'll accept this answer for now, Basilicum. But I hope you will guard one of my sons someday. Xanxus, perhaps? His reaction to Harmony was so like yours, and he is short a Mist."

Nope, nope noppity nope, Xanxus was like a weird knockoff version Zabuza with an added dash of some sort of complex plus terrible siblings. Also, Squalo killed Tyr. I liked Tyr. Now they were Varia, I was CEDEF, and we were interservice rivals.

"Massimo needs a Rain and right hand as well." Never. CEDEF would burn before allowing madmen into our ranks. Sir was a special case and at least his stupidity was obfuscating stupidity. Massimo had nothing to obfuscate.

* * *

The private meeting ended with the disturbing revelation that my lack of presence was considered a strategic asset since I was able to fool Hyper Intuition. Sir had to pay attention when fighting me now, yay!

Then, proper strategy.

It quickly devolved into an argument.

"Untrained!"

"--young--"

"-ushishishi, the Prince--"

"Inexperienced--"

"--unstable"

"--VOOOIII!!!!!"

"--stressful situation--"

They were, by the way, talking about two infiltration operatives. One's me, the other is "prince the ripper", opposite me, wearing a tiara, and…giggling. So, since nothing productive was being done, I sighed, stepped up, opened my binder, let the cover hang loose, then, after saturating my eardrums with Matatabi, hit it with all my might.

CLANG!

I assumed that was what happened when my blow connected, since sensibly, I had deafened myself beforehand. Matatabi fizzled away to reveal shell-shocked silence. "This one assumes," I said mildly, "That a period of familiarization will be required betwixt the aforementioned individuals, during which certain proofs may be produced. Until then, such doubts are voiced with neither base nor sense, thus better left to molder in the minds of men."

Not my problem now, sir could manage. I bowed, then stepped back.

Chigiri meetings would have devolved into an all out brawl by now, so this wasn't exactly a problem.

**And yes, the reason Nono keeps wanting Basil and Xanxus to harmonize is so that the nasty little parentage secret won't matter anymore. No one else wants that. Basil did threaten to kill whoever tries to forcefully harmonize with him *cough* Massimoron *cough*.**

**Next chap, the only two agemates in the Vongola: the Prince and the Page. OR:**

**Squalo: Thank god you speak crazy, go on, talk crazy to our psychopathic brat.**


	12. Chapter 12

**In which Oregano is a Much Better Cloud than Ottabio (the sleaze), is girl-friends with Lussuria, and Basil is a protective little brat. Then comes the playdate from hell (for other people).**

As I was too young to be allowed to travel unchaperoned to visit the assassins' bedlam, Oregano brought me to the Varia headquarters via bus, because she was sensible like that and didn't want to waste a car on the Varia's traps. The door was opened by a very sleazy looking man. I felt rather naked, given that I didn't have my binder with me--my arms were occupied with holding a giant basket of wine, with a few additional bottles of brandy, cognac, and whisky.

"Oregano." The man sneered, "Not only are you chasing after men's heels, you are taking care of their brats too. Still a failure, aren't you?"

Oregano looked down her nose at him. "Ottabio." She greeted in the same tone, "Stop being a nuisance and do something useful for a change. Even you should be able to accomplish a task as simple as letting us in, so step aside."

Ottabio shook out his sleeve, but quick as a flash, Oregano slammed his nose onto her knee and left him in a heap outside the door. "You haven't changed at all." She pronounced contemptuously, "I don't know why I bothered asking nicely. Come, Basil."

I followed her into the building, which, though brightly lit, resounded with more screams than your average haunted house.

"That was Ottabio," Oregano stated, " He's only Cloud Officer because everyone else who's Quality refused, including me. Nasty little man's still sore that he was only considered after I rejected the offer, and has been trying to get one over me ever since. Don't you dare grow up like him, Basil sweet. Ah, Lussuria!"

My senpai/sensei smiled brightly at the mohawked man bustling towards us. I was fine with everything but the color scheme. Red and green was a striking combination that hurt my eyes.

"Oregano!" The man cried, and they kissed each other's cheeks, "How's work? Is Iemitsu treating you well? You can kill Ottabio anytime! Xanxus is our Boss now, and he's so deliciously angry--very much unlike Tyr--if you had problems with our previous Boss, why not try again now? Offer's still open dear!"

I leapt in front of Oregano, bared my teeth and hissed, "Begone, thou thieving cur!"

It garnered me the desired reaction--Lussuria cooed in delight at the viciousness I displayed, just like a Kiri-nin. He pinched my cheeks and brought us upstairs.

"Squ-chan!" He called through the door, "Oregano and Basil are here to meet Bel! Tyr's old desk can wait, we have guests!"

Lussuria beckoned us back. Just in time, as it exploded open, accompanied by Squalo's yell of, "VOI!!! Don't tell me what to do, the fucking desk is more urgent than the crazy brat's playdate! Boss wants to burn the lot and I'm not coming in to find that every fucking thing in the desk's been turned to ashes!"

Oregano and I perked up at the "P" word, sensing a kindred soul. Well, maybe not a close relation, but at least something along the lines of the divorced brother-in-law of the second-cousin-once-removed, dealing in woodpulp and therefore one of ours.

Wordlessly, I offered him the basket. He snatched it from my hands, shoved it on Lussuria, and stormed off. Nearing the stairs, he turned and snarled, "Well? Aren't you here to meet the brat?"

"This one was not informed of his partner's personality." I said as I scrambled to catch up.

He answered as we walked, "Fucking brat tore through half the Storm Division before boss beat him, and now he calls the boss 'king', calls himself 'prince', and calls everyone else peasant."

"You too?" Oregano asked semi-sympathetically.

He grimaced, "'Shark-peasant'."

We stopped outside a reinforced room--a training room, I presumed. Turning to me, he said, "You speak crazy, so speak crazy with Bel and don't get killed. I don't need Sawada-scum's whining."

He opened the door and threw me in.

I channeled my forward momentum into a roll that took me out of the way of a volley of knives, then sprang back up, using a moment to survey the room. The few dummies in it were so full of knives that they looked like metal Christmas trees, and more knives littered the floor. My opponent favored thrown weaponry.

"Ushishishi. A peasant come to challenge the prince?"

I stepped to the side, and heard the thuds of connected hits sound from the floor. The prince was fast, but Oinin throwing senbon were faster. Speaking of Oinin, I touched the banked blue coals at my core, breathing them to life, then shaped their anti-heat into a bastardized version of their hijutsu. I called it Apricot Blossom Rain, the rain of early spring, too light to be a drizzle, to heavy to be a fog, so subtle that you did not realize it was there until suddenly, you noticed that your clothes were wet. An apt name for something designed to weaken the enemy without their knowing, slowing down the pace of battle by tranquilizing their strength and all the kinetic energy within the jutsu's range.

Annoyingly, I was unarmed. Well, that was easily remedied. I caught the next wave of pointy objects, then shot back, "This one is not of thy fiefdom."

We traded a few more blows coupled with insults as my jutsu did its job, the prince noticeably more sluggish than in the beginning while I matched his pace. Then I moved on the attack. "Wherefore-" I asked, catching his wrist as I returned to normal speed, "-was this one-" I threw him to the ground, "-named peasant?" I put him in a hold. "This one should be a squire at least."

"Ushishishi. Not a peasant." The prince conceded. Burning pain flared from our point of contact, and I let go on reflex. He took the opening to reverse our positions. I felt hot steel at my neck. "A page."

It wasn't as if he could kill me when I had reality-warping Mist Flames at my disposal, so I huffed in annoyance. I cut off the Apricot Blossom, then let Matatabi burn away the friction between us. A forceful jerk to one side, and he was off my back, and my wrist was out of his, at the price of letting his knife open a wound.

Blood and conflict. Lovely. A very auspicious start to a Chigiri friendship.

"A lord's ward." I countered once I got up, my CEDEF badge glinting in the light.

"Still a page." He pouted, playing with the knife stained with my blood.

Be that way. At least I was part of the royal household, even if, according to sir, I was the Antichrist(the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness). I put my hands on my hips and asked, "As thou dubbed this one, so shall this one be. Wilt thou permit this one to attend upon thee?"

"The Prince shall." He allowed magnanimously, "If the page collects the Prince's knives."

I picked one up. A flare of Matatabi had it evaporating beneath my fingers--cloud construct. "No point."

He sulked, draping his lanky frame over me, "The page is no fun."

I felt a sharp tug at my hair. I didn't even have pigtails. Then I realized that he had kept the strands from brushing themselves against the cut at the back of my neck. That was rather gentlemanly, as the Bloody Mist had it.

The door opened. "Not dead yet?" Lussuria trilled, "Look at the two of you! Lemonade and cookies, dearies?"

The Varia were weird. Rather homesickness-inducing too. Didn't stop me from snatching the larger glass of pink lemonade for Matatabi to burn into sorbet. I did the same for the Prince Bel after he started poking me with one of his knives. Pig. Tails.

* * *

Turned out that a suitable target had been picked for us to test our teeth on. Bel was there to massacre all the mooks, while I was supposed to retrieve useful information/loot the corpses/keep him from killing us all with an accidentally started electrical fire, etc.

We had plenty of fun. I think. He went on a rampage, so I avoided friendly fire and dealt with whatever half-dead victims he missed putting in the ground. Bel didn't deliberately aim knives at me, unlike someone I could name, and even let me have the last kill. How sweet. Lussuria and Oregano filmed it as proof for the naysayers. Was this what sir meant when he whimpered about Oregano liking scary-sweet?

It was decided. I was going to be close to Bel just to exacerbate sir's suffering.

* * *

** I can't think of any other way for Bel to carry the inordinate amount of knives we see in canon, so he has a Cloud Secondary in this fic. Not relevant, except for the fact that he'll never run out of knives. And since this is Newly Employed Bel, he hasn't incorporated wires into his fighting style yet.**

**And I call the Basil and Bel relationship BB. :)**


	13. Chapter 13

**To ChaoticInscriber: thank you for all your reviews!**

**Basil, gun ranges, and his poor eardrums: events will result in him becoming a sniper just so he only has to suffer one shot at a time.**

**And as Iemitsu's disturbingly on-point Hyper Intuition tells him, Basil is Antichrist material.**

**Bloody Mist sociopathy paired with the biggest pair of blue eyes you've ever seen makes for great Iemitsu wrangling skills.**

**BB pretty much mean that not only do massacres happen, _you can't find any record that the massacred people existed_. Paperwork ninja and Prince the Ripper combine to literally erase irritants from earth. Ottabio's living on borrowed time, obvs.**

I barely managed to get enough Rain Flames up to turn a bone-breaking, concussion-causing punch into a merely bruising one. For the first time in this life, I felt the visceral fear of death that had painted my childhood a grainy blackish grey, but as I had chosen once before, so I chose now: I would live, and come hell or high water, see my will done.

In this case, by unfinished business was again, obviously, sir's ridiculousness, Iruka's lunch, and my next playdate with Bel. Blue fire lit upon my brow, burning away exhaustion and reigniting my will. For a moment. Then I collapsed, because being pushed past the breaking point for most of the week hadn't done me any favors, and sir's Dying Will combat training had been the last straw.

Recap. After it was confirmed that yes, Bel and I were a perfect fit, we each got stuck on our own nightmare circuits, me more than him, since he was the Storm Officer of the Independent Assassination Squad and thus assumed to be a more than competent killer, while on the other hand, I was apparently a paper-pusher and needed the intensive training. I didn't object. Lal exhausted me with physical exercise, Oregano drained my Mist Flames dry with near constant drills on discrete application, with the occasional standard genjutsu thrown in. My troubles with Mist usually centered on the foreign believe-it-and-it'll work thing, since the only way for a sensible chakra genjutsu to kill someone directly would be if it caused a stroke. Then there was Turmeric. Pop quizzes. Pop quizzes anytime, anywhere, on anything. What was written on that file left on the corner table? How many moles did the visiting agent yesterday have on the right side of his face? What was the new book in Iemitsu's office?

I could see the logic behind the training--photographic recall was essential to my task of securing intelligence; physical stamina would be necessary, given that Bel and I would be alone in enemy territory; Being able to muster the Dying Will would magnify my combat capability tenfold.

* * *

So, Dying Will flames have been proven possible to manifest despite me not being a Sky, because sir's obnoxious obliviousness broke even reality. Now what?

Time to find me a proper weapon, apparently. Lemongrass, our head janitor and Lightning-in-Residence unlocked the Flame armory. (Unlike the rest of the Mafia, while CEDEF acknowledged the necessity of having all seven Flame-types on call, we didn't put that much stock in keeping seven divisions. Our best Lightning wasn't even halfway decent at being a meatshield, so what? He fixated on keeping the building running smoothly, and could provide Lightning flames when needed. Much less hassle than having a fanatic automaton called Leviathan in the building and annoying everyone.)

I looked at the selection.

"CEDEF's cover is that it's an architectural firm." I said flatly, "So you want me to use a modified metal set square, because it's thematically appropriate as a weapon, even if it's ridiculous. Especially if it's ridiculous, because, with all due respect sir, your taste is sorely lacking."

Sawada Iemitsu swung an arm around my shoulder, "But that's where you're wrong, Basil! Let your wise and worldly master explain it to you! No one trains against boomerangs or compasses or anti-tank rifles"

"--unless their names are Lal Mirch or Collonello or Reborn or Fon" I cut in,"--on second thought, a lot of people train against unconventional weaponry. Sir." I added as an afterthought.

Sir waved a hand dismissively, "Trust your master. Rest up, and then we'll start training."

I looked at Oregano's carefully blank expression and the rolls of receipt paper she had produced, as well as Turmeric's determined examination of the microscopic composite of the air in front of his face as he demonstrated his arm-length compass (circle-drawing kind, not north-pointing kind). Turmeric was emitting the familiar sempai-to-kouhai I suffered this once, you sure as hell can suffer it too.

Training was predictably horrible. Unlike perfectly reasonable kunai and senbon, boomerangs came back. It was an utter nightmare to figure out where I wanted it to rebound to, since in battle, I would be moving.

Bel visited to laugh at me. I wanted revenge.

* * *

My Oregano-chaperoned visits to the Varia always began the same way.

"Back again Oregano?"

"Yes."

BANG!

Oregano broke his ribs, called for one of the Varia underlings, and led me in.

* * *

"How dare you show your face--"

Oregano didn't even bother answering, simply sweeping Ottabio's feet out from under him then dislocating his shoulder as he fell.

* * *

"Ore--"

SNAP!

Oregano broke Ottabio's left leg with a kick.

* * *

"Bitch--!"

CRACK!

I peered out from behind an armful of charts. "I'm beginning to think that the Varia are doing this on purpose."

"Obviously." Oregano replied briskly, "And I know it. Why do you think I'm leaving the rat an arm and a leg? This way, he can present himself for suffering every time."

* * *

"Oregano, you--"

My colleague threw two crumpled receipts at him. Midair, they propagated and came alive. Ottabio didn't even have the time to cry out before he was completely and utterly mummified, not that he wasn't already half-wrapped in bandages.

"You'd think he'd have figured out that he should just step aside and keep his mouth shut by now." I commented mildly as I followed her indoors.

"Sadly, Ottabio hasn't figured out how to propagate intelligence." Oregano replied drily, plucking the original pair of papers from their progeny, because she wasn't the littering sort, "Now, I'm off to see what's had Squalo tearing his hair out these days. According to our records, there're reports that should be due in Tyr's desk, and it's about time for CEDEF to put our silly otuoto in its place. You can find Belphegor yourself, I presume. Attack anyone who stands in your way, Varia's not as big on formality as CEDEF."

I blinked.

"Alright."

* * *

Wind was produced when differences in air temperature caused differences in air pressure, resulting in wind. Rain cooled the air around me. A gust of air knocked the knives away.

"Ushishishi. The page has invented a new trick." More knives flew at me, "The prince wants to see."

I obliged.

It took Bel a few demonstrations to understand how my jutsu worked, and another few tries for him to replicate it himself.

He grinned. "The prince wants to waltz."

Our raised hands trailed cold cyan air, while from his hand at my waist hot air rose. We spun, and in our revolutions we stirred up a tornado. A literal dance of destruction.

Which reminded me, "Thy blades are light and easily turned in flight, thus inferior for outside use. They should be made suitable for divers conditions, and not cloistered behind door and under roof."

"Shishishi. The prince sees the page's point." Bel agreed, "Waltzing without knives is no fun."

"Wires." I said smugly, once we came to a halt. I applied a touch of Matatabi to alleviate dizziness. "Or fishing wire."

I held a sample of both up.

"Fishing line is for peasants." Bel complained. In other words, fishing line was too embarrassingly all-purpose and arts-and-crafts/DIY-y.

"Wire it is." I said cheerfully, tossing the spool of string that I had nicked from sir into a corner.

What transpired afterwards was sweet, sweet revenge.

Bel attached his knives to the wire, threw them, then tried to change their path in midair. Emphasis on tried. He got tangled in the wire as the knives flew back and slashed narrow red lines across his face.

The prince's giggles took on a maniacal edge. "See now this sacred sanctification, the holy blood of royalty now shed upon profane ground--"

"--art thou Celtic?" I asked, scandalized.

He lunged. I sidestepped. He twisted, killing intent flaring. I grinned, this was a Chigiri spar. We had a decent idea of each other's capabilities, and we weren't holding back. I went for the jugular and he angled for my left axillary. We fought with only the faintest awareness of comradeship to turn our blades at the critical moment should it come. I cartwheeled sideways to avoid his cut, kicking his nose in while I was at it while simultaneously throwing my boomerang to come back in a second for a surprise attack. He leaned out of the way and stomped on my foot, a corona of Storm Flames burning away the subtle influence of my Kyoukau, but I was already jumping up, bouncing off the walls, catching my returning boomerang, and dropping onto his head. If I succeeded, my speed and weight would break his neck. I didn't, and he threw a knife-weighted wire to catch my elbow, Storm racing down the length and turning it razor-sharp. I only kept my limb by virtue of sir's training, lighting a torch of cobalt to tranquilize the disintegrating effect of Bel's crimson, but I was too slow to avoid a line being cut across my front. Matatabi burnt the Mist-knife away, so it took but a thought for the friction keeping the wire attached to be lost, surprising Bel at the sudden disappearance of resistance. I threw my boomerang again as he fell, watchful for a surprise recovery at any moment--I was not disappointed. I was nearly tripped by a well placed knife, and even that slight loss in balance was enough of an opening for him to topple us both to the ground.

We wrestled, all technique lost to bloodlust and madness. I laughed, bright and clear, for I was mistress of genjutsu and my mind was not so easily unmade, and Rain, fierce as my second motherland's monsoons and as irresistible as the Infinite Tsukuyomi crashed down on us like a tsunami.

Bel and I lay head to head on the ground, catching our breath.

We both had our clothes in tatters, which, while not a problem for him, was somewhat of an issue for me, since I was taking the bus home.

"The page should be liveried by the prince." Bel said as he offered me a hand up.

I accepted the offer.

* * *

Bel led me to his room. I took first shower while he found me clothes, then we switched. The shirt and trousers he found me looked and felt expensive, but since they weren't printed with cartoon characters and weren't work suits either, I most certainly wasn't turning them down.

We were just putting our shoes back on when we heard Squalo's signature "VOI!"

We exchanged a look, bangs-to-eye-and-bangs, then headed towards the origin of the noise. Half of Varia's Officers were present in the Desk Room, along with a bored Oregano. Underfoot was a vaguely familiar scene.

Purple-edged receipt-snakes were throwing themselves on Storm fires to smother them, while even more were trying to keep scarlet-ringed documents from self-immolating. A motley combination of paper scraps lined by blue or yellow were trying to help the purple, to little effect, and somewhere by the half-ruined desk was a tangle of toilet paper glowing with indigo and purple while webbed by electric green. The mess was trying to twist itself into pieces.

"Ushsishishi. Silly peasants."

"This one has seen the like before." I said to Bel.

* * *

I had walked in on what was either a turf war or a zombie apocalypse simulation going on in sir's office. My indigo-hearted cerulean flames edged a small collection of papers surrounded by a sea of orange as they flapped…errrr…fought. Before my eyes, a lone sheet of the blue and indigo paper was swamped by orange ones, and then, after a last, desperate gasp of cold-colored flame, my influence sputtered out, and a lick of orange flared to life, which explained why sir's clown papers kept growing in number. I had hissed, because if I had to invent some sort of antibody or inoculation for flames, I was going to be very annoyed.

* * *

And no one had noticed us, despite the fact that we were standing in plain sight in the doorway. Not even Oregano. I was hurt. Really.

From experience, I knew that it was a coin toss whether I could get there attention by coughing or saying something. I decided not to take the risk. I was learning from sir. I let Matatabi stretch from my fingertips to infect some sheets of red. They shaped the papers into little leaping dolphins and stalking cats from memories shared by my brother's mental occupant and what I myself had witnessed upon the battlefield of the Fourth War, creatures more aware than they should be, and all the more dangerous for it as they rammed and pounced and bit the red, draining the destruction away to its ultimate fate, the fate of reality, its inevitable heat-death.

Between us two CEDEF, the self-destruct mechanism was forcibly disarmed. Bel played with my constructs before they collapsed, and then it was left to the Lightning pea--Leviathan to pick up the lot (Both Oregano and I could have made the papers organize themselves. Naturally, we, didn't.)

When we were waving goodbye, Bel darted forward to press a kiss to my cheek. "The page won the prince's kiss." He explained with another giggle, waving goodbye and ignoring the mirror-opposite reactions of Lussuria and Squalo.

* * *

The countdown to Operation Gomorrah was three days. I couldn't wait. Waltzing with an orchestra of screams and raining righteous retribution upon the guilty. Marvelous.


	14. Chapter 14

**Operation Brimstone is a go, and Basil is finally making ripples. (In other words, Mukuro is getting rescued soon.)**

Turned out that I hadn't been too off point when I had assumed that anyone with powers was in danger of being kidnapped for human experimentation. Yippee. The Estraneo were the bogeymen I had imagined, snatching kids off the streets. In this case, their nasty human-kidnapping habits were going to be their undoing, because Bel and I were in the optimal kidnapping-victim age range while being the opposite of what anyone wanted in a test subject.

Bel and I got kitted out in rags and trackers. Using means that I was unable to discern, Bel managed to hide enough knives to skewer an army in ill-fitting, dirt-covered clothes. I, on the other hand, was not so lucky as to have easily concealable weapons, so I was forced to leave the set square behind and make do with my hell ring, which, admittedly, was a S-ranked weapon--that I did not want to use.

I had yet to put the bloody thing on, so I wasn't going to start now when I was only confronted by a Chigiri C-rank. Naturally, that meant that I stuck it in my pocket. As the intelligence operative, I was given point during the infiltration stage of our mission, meaning that I was in charge from the moment the mission began to the time when Bel started killing, at which point I was to move to secure viable intelligence--in other words, once the screams started, I was to kill anyone making a move towards the paper shredders and incinerators, then put out any fires that got started.

I fed Mist flames into the hungry scrap of metal, letting it gorge on power and with it shape probability. A peculiar pressure told me that my machinations took root in the fabric of reality. I took Bel's hand, then led him where my whims took me. We wandered about the outskirts of a farmer's market. A bout of cut-pursing from Bel got us the money for homemade gelato, which turned out to be goat's milk. Since he found that yucky, I looked around for another source of snacks. My attention was drawn to a fruit cart filled with red apples, a scarlet shine upon their unblemished skins in the afternoon light. Now, an explanation, in case you are finding my diction and syntax disturbing. While a childhood under the Sandaime's thumb has forced a predilection for purple prose onto yours truly, at least a quarter of my flowery language is the fault of my discount ring, meaning that in this case, the 1000-1 was telling me to take that opportunity.

I palmed an apple for Bel, but got noticed during the handover. That was mist magic at work. I'm not that terrible. Obviously. The fruit seller blew up and chased us through streets.

"Shishishi." He giggled gleefully, "The chase is on."

We tore through the sparse crowds, racking up a commotion. I felt another mental nudge, so in hopelessly out-of-character behavior, I tripped, and Bel "frantically tried" to help me up. The hulking man loomed above us, livid with rage. I shrieked in false terror, letting loose a wild wave of Rain Flames and making the man collapse. Luckily, it was the sort of thing that could be explained away as a spontaneous stroke. Police crowded around with suspicious quickness, and the two of us were thrown in the backseat of a car with tinted windows and then driven away. Bel and I hid smirks: we were in. I was offended by how easy it was--we weren't knocked-out, chloroformed, or even blindfolded.

* * *

We were thrown into a room with a collection of other children. They were terrified little things, shrinking away from the opened door. And we had to spend hours with them. Argh!

* * *

By the three hours mark, Bel had taken over the holding cell and crowned himself lord of the hovel, named the former ringleader of the imps court jester, and was entertaining himself by throwing random rubbish at the boy to force him to dance. I napped on his shoulder, because he was nice and warm. My flames were named after a necromantic hell**cat** for a reason. We were fed sandwiches. With SPAM.

Bel seemed horrified by the processed meat's very existence, not even managing to laugh as he declared, "Such peasants' creations are unfit for the Prince's palate."

I laughed and picked the SPAM out of our sandwiches, then offered him the choice between limp lettuce and soggy bread.

He introduced me to the wonderful concept of food fights. I had a very deprived not-childhood in the Bloody Mist.

"Five points for a red." I said.

A piece of pinkish stuff found the red flower print on a girl's skirt. She let out a quickly choked-off wail and hid in a corner.

"Shishishi. One for sorrow."

I interpreted that if I hit an unhappy kid (meaning any of them), I'd be awarded one point.

I flicked my ammunition towards the nearest civvy.

"Two for joy." I countered cheerfully, then dropped another piece onto his leg, since I noticed that he was running out.

"Three for a girl."

Wailing brat.

"Four for a boy."

Court jester, and so on.

I went to sleep once I realized that the sandwiches weren't laced with anything to suppress my flames, presumably because I was believed to be weak and helpless. Joke was on them. They weren't on guard against what Matatabi could do in the hands of one of the Young Lion's cubs, let alone my proper primary and my prince's all-annihilating fire.

Curses. I was actually becoming proud of my association with sir.

* * *

I was rudely brought back to the waking world by a thug. He dragged me off for a checkup. Also, whoever designed the base was an idiot, since everything of import was clustered together. It was as if they had never heard of trojan horses. I could get valuable intel just by looking around and pretending to be wide-eyed and terrified.

Height, weight, blood samples, and something to force me to manifest watery blue fire. I kept a hold on my reaction to push power out, but wasn't all too concerned about keeping a solid cover of weakness, since the witnesses were going to die anyway. I was given a piece of candy and then sent back into the room. I reported the scientists' gossip to Bel, informing him of the fact that there were more bases, meaning more fun in store for us. Also, we tried to make the kids participate in a tourney, with my piece of candy as the prize. Failed.

Then they took Bel. Poor them. I could taste the smugness of the 666 at forcing our plans to move up by a few hours.

Once I heard an explosion, I used a touch of Mist to unlock the door, then stepped out, tripped an unsuspecting guard, confiscated his weapons, shot him in the head, Matatabi dealing with the recoil, and finally moved towards the chaos.

The giggling stood out from the cacophony of noise. "Look at this wasted blood, scattered upon lowly ground!"

I poked a cerulean finger into a beeping machine, neutralizing the self-destruct for the time being, then blew cold air onto an electrical fire so that Bel didn't kill us all by accident. I spun into his dance of destruction, whirling through the steps of our waltz and providing a defense to his more offensive capabilities, creating wind to turn blades and adding my own strains to his wire-played symphony, my prince slipping me a handful of knives as we came into each other's orbits, cool cobalt eddies mingling with raging red currents. I reached the other side of his area of effect, then slipped into the labs. A thrown knife went through the throat of a woman in a lab coat who was feeding papers into a shredder while I poked a Storm trying to disintegrate some suspicious samples in the ribs. Shot the next few, since they weren't near anything important, trio of bullets, center mass. I took a breath and flicked my hair from my sweaty skin.

No one else was there. I scanned for bombs, volatile substances about to explode and the like, found none, then moved on to the next room.

The slight musty smell had me relaxing almost involuntarily. While there was a trance-like peace to be found in battle, true comfort for me lay in the power held within deceptively insignificant tomes. I had found an archive room. I poured out an ocean of Rain, allowing the edges of the teal to darken to indigo. This was the prize, and instinct and nature had me claiming it with more force than strictly necessary.

Mist fed me information without the need for flesh-eyed sight (take that, Byakugan!). I flipped open a curious folder, on which was written:

_Spade. Eye. Preservation, infusion of Mist Flames, successful implant. Subject #F69._

Attached was the picture of a glowing red orb, a black kanji for one on its surface.

Doujutsu.

The plague-ridden thrice-accursed rat's nest of a family had started poking about in one of the worst of Konoha's specialties, second only to unreasonably powerful, mentally unstable colorful individuals with a touch of megalomania--magic eyeballs.

I committed the information to memory, then tucked the guilty papers into a Mist pocket dimension. No need for the Vongola to start poking about in the messy business of squishy peeled grapes, thank you very much.

Out of the archives, into a meeting room. Ooh, a map. Nice one too, with plenty of pins on suspicious locations.

I continued dealing with annoying people who tried to destroy intelligence, then disarmed another self-destruct device.

* * *

Everyone who shouldn't be alive was dead by the time I finished my rounds, and Bel was cheerfully attempting to make a bouquet of spleens. Given that the Vongola forces were being inexcusably slow, I plopped down beside him.

"This one believes that blood is best kept on enemies and not on the self." I commented.

"Ushishishi." Bel grinned, "The prince is above peasant sicknesses."

"This page is frowning in confusion."

"The page is being silly."

"Flames?"

"Thus the prince finds the page silly at the present."

"Should the prince not remedy this then?"

When the adults finally caught up, I was finger-painting occult symbols onto the walls while Bel taught me to use my flames to protect myself from microbes. The blue color invoked Ao no Exorcist. More infernal motifs, yay!

* * *

OMAKE:

We need to talk about Bed and Breakfast (no, really).

Squalo: Alright, we need to have a talk. And lock the door, Ottabio isn't joining in.

Levi: Belphegor is terrible, and the Outside Advisor's brat is worse! He's associating with the Strom Officer, persuading him to fraternize with the enemy, and even stealing Varia secrets!

Ottabio, aside: *sneeze*

Mammon: That prince doesn't even call him peasant! Nor does he try to kill Basilicum's pet.

Phantasma: *shrinks in on himself*

Squalo: VOI!!! The page issue aside, you're all missing the fucking point. I'm not the fucking HR department, so why the fuck do I get your complaints on my desk?

Lussuria: That's because HR can't deal with it, Squ-chan! I told them to forward the complaints to you, then you can talk to our Boss-sama!

Levi: Ottabio has also forwarded complaints.

Mammon: Ottabio has no right to complain. He is wasting valuable paper and his medical expenses mean that he is unable to pay for them.

Squalo: Don't you realize that the other brat can clean up after the brat and sneak the brat out whenever he wants to kill people? It's enough trouble keeping a lid on the psychopath when he doesn't have a stealth operative on call. And the shitty boss's just laughing.

Lussuria: That's because Boss can see that the two are just utterly adorable! Storms and Rains make the best~ couples!!! Bel-chan and Basil-chan will be our Romeo and Juliet, and put an end to the Varia and CEDEF feud without either of them dying!

Squalo: They aren't going to die. Sawada's shitty brat is just as much of a fucking creepy psychopath as Bel. If they keep at it then Bel will end up even more improperly socialized than he is already and then we'll have two feral geni who think everyone else is stupid, and then everyone else will die, and while not having to deal with stupid scum will be nice, the world can't function with just the intelligent people.

**Funny patterns: Storms and Rains have a habit of being shipped together (5980, XS), while Bel seems to have a habit of getting attached to Mists (Mammon, Fran). Meaning that Rainy Mist Basil checks all the Flame boxes when it comes to being Bel's potential love interest.**


	15. Chapter 15

**In which Basil starts his correspondence with Bianchi. Not really satisfied with this chapter, but it's the build up to dealing with both Bianchi's feeding-Hayato-poison-cooking situation and Mukuro's experimented-on-by-the-Estraneo situation, so bear with me.**

**Also, Iemitsu didn't show Tsuna and Giotto's comparison's to Basil. He's marginally intelligent.**

While the first joint operatives to burst in froze, transfixed by the unholy sight of necromantic symbols half hidden in flickering shadow, certain individuals I could name didn't notice, and naturally, my non-existence kicked in at the most inopportune moment.

"BASIL!?! BASIL!!! BASIL???" Sir shoved the vanguard aside and looked around wildly, not forgetting to spare a moment to glare at Bel, "Where are you? Are you hurt? Did the nasty little demon attack you--knew he wasn't a good egg--BAAASIIIIILLLLL!"

I allowed myself to lean back against the wall for a moment and sigh.

"Here, sir." I said, blinking up at my master innocently.

He flailed, "Woah, Basil, you scared your poor shishou there, and IS THAT A--"

"--Yes sir, it is." I cut in mildly, shoving the folded up map and other assorted trinkets in his hands, "This one is of the opinion that the first object of this mission is to secure the laboratories, as certain experiments may degrade with time or denature to the detriment of those determined to discover them, therefore, this one suggests that we proceed posthaste."

I then proceeded to drag sir around and show off my new (temporary) acquisitions.

* * *

Debriefing after a mission was boring. It didn't help that I had to debrief twice, once with Vongola command, then another time with the Alliance Families. Both reports had information omitted, but amusingly enough, only the Alliance Families were aware of the redaction, which was ridiculous, I hadn't even been an open book to my brother, my Mizukage (and he knew it), and he was the one who forcefully motivated typical-middle-student-me into becoming yours truly.

I managed to foist the not-for-suspicious-old-men's-eyes files onto Lal sometime during the whole mess, but it came back to bother me, just like everything else I've done in this life--maybe sir's unfairly on-point Hyper Intuition was to blame for him assigning me a bloody boomerang.

* * *

"Basil." Sir held out a opened file, "What do you make of these?"

There were five pairs of pictures displayed in front of me, faces with hair and clothes cropped, the left of each pair a mature face, the right one still my age an softened by baby fat. The bottom right picture was from the knockoff-sharin-rinnegan file I gave Lal.

"They…look alike, sir. Is this evidence that the Estraneo have begun a cloning program?"

"Nothing so simple." The Young Lion said grimly, "These are the portraits of Vongola's First Generation, as well as the pictures of certain children. As you can see, there's an uncanny similarity between these pairs, as well as between Xanxus and Ricardo, against all odds. It's too prolific to just be a coincidence, so it is something else."

Please. Please. Please. Please don't be an Asura and Indra situation, I haven't recovered from the trauma of one Zetsu yet. Please don't tell me that this is going to be another ambiguous love-hate relationship with crazy Konoha-equivalents, it was terrible enough the first time around.

Sir ignored my fervent prayer, "Our best guess, at this moment, is some form of reincarnation. Giotto's Dying Will resurfacing in the Tenth Generation to remake the Vongola."

Expletive! Expletive! Expletive! Why, in the name of all that is reasonable, is this happening? I am Kiri! **Kiri**, not Konoha!

"And who, exactly, is 'we', sir?"

"Nono and myself, our Guardians, and now, you."

"Whilst I am honored, sir, I don't see the point in telling me about this." I replied flatly.

Sir sighed, "This involves the Tenth Generation, so it's your responsibility as the Vongola CEDEF's Tenth Generation heir to provide support from the sidelines. More than that, as the bearer of the Ring of Misfortune, you are more personally familiar with opaque nature of fate than anyone else, so I hoped that you will provide insight on this matter. Can you, Basilicum?"

I winced, because last time I interfered with fate, it still resulted in a Fourth Shinobi War, so I was understandably leery of trying again. "Well, with all due respect, sir, as far as I'm concerned, this is either some sort of malicious plot brought about by entities attempting to manipulate the tenth generation (see: Zetsu, Madara, Eye of the Moon), or a odd turn of fate that got genes to combine in just the right way, in which case we'd be better off not trying to interfere, since the more you try to stop fate, the more ludicrous the coincidences will become, and next thing you know, an ancient should-be-dead fanatic will pop out of the woodwork to force someone onto the 'right path', and then you'll have to find a way to kill him, and then you'll realize that he's already dead, and when you finally figure out how to destroy revenants, you'll realize that he's a proxy all along, and then the actual corpse will enter the battlefield just in time to revive himself, and then you'll realize that he's also just a piece on the board and that the actual threat involves a world-spanning something and--"

"--that's enough, Basil-kun," sir cut me off mid-rant, looking slightly disturbed, "I think you should calm down. Right now, we're trying to just observe the potential candidates. The two Italian individuals here are Hayato Falcone, brother of Bianchi, who Reborn tells me you met at the ball, and subject #69, who's still in Estraneo custody and now a priority recovery target. The rest are not your concern. Right now, I'm giving you a long-term assignment regarding Hayato Falcone. You are to befriend his sister and discreetly surveil him, as well as Trident Shamal, if possible."

"Yes, sir." I nodded, then asked hopefully, "Will I be infiltrating other bases with Bel to find subject #69?"

"NO!" Sir yelped, "Definitely NOT!"

* * *

Dear Bianchi,

We met at the masquerade ball, remember? I never got to thank you for dealing with Massimo for me, and it's been a hectic time (lots of work), so I only just managed to write you a letter. Would you like to be my friend? Sir says I need more friends than just Bel, and I'm afraid he'll start interfering if I don't take initiative. I like calligraphy, chemistry, and crocheting, as well as reading. I dislike loud noises and Massimo. What about you?

Most sincerely,

Basil

* * *

Dear Basil,

I would love to be your friend! Not many people like chemistry, unless you count cooking. I like cooking, poison, and romance novels. I dislike the mafia princesses in my class, but don't really mind hapless people like Dino. By Bel, do you mean the same Bel Squalo complains to Dino about? His yelling's sort of been stressing Dino out more than usual lately, though I think that it may be because Dino's father is sick. Speaking of sickness, which method of simulating fever do you prefer? I've enclosed some notes regarding my favorite sick-leave poisons.

Your friend,

Bianchi

* * *

Dear Bianchi,

I'm glad to hear from you! I think that #3 can be modified for ease of preservation with the addition of an emulsifier, which would make it the best swift-action poison, although #2 seems to be the most easily synthesized.

I've had a calm week, and the worst thing that happened was Iruka attacking someone for giving him sub-par fish, but that was easily rectified, and Iruka learned a new trick to apologize for his extreme actions. Enclosed are pictures.

Your friend,

Basil

* * *

Dear Basil,

Iruka is adorable! I wish I had a pet like that, but our castle only has an old cat who acts like a semi-mobile pile of rags most of the time. I'll trade you pictures of the cat for more of Iruka.

Speaking of Iruka, that's romaji for dolphin, isn't it? Basil, are you seriously calling your dolphin "dolphin"? I didn't know you had it in you. Also, does this mean you're learning Japanese?

Your friend,

Bianchi

P.S. enclosed are pictures of my cute little brother and not-so-cute cat.

* * *

Dear Bianchi,

Your brother is, admittedly, cuter than the cat (although I feel awkward calling an agemate cute). As promised, here are some more pictures of Iruka. Also, I've been doing some digging, and I've found some old recipes that you might want to try out (see below). I'm trying to make the cheesecake and failing miserably at the present, meaning that my master is suffering miserably as he forces himself to stomach the results. I've been trying to tell him that I know my creations are currently failures and he need not eat them to spare my failures, but he doesn't listen.

And yes, sir is teaching me Japanese.

How's life?

Your friend,

Basil

* * *

Dear Basil,

Life's fun. I've managed to give a few of the gossip girls severe cases of diarrhea, and Dino's mostly stabilized. My cooking's improving by leaps and bounds, and father's been teaching me to manifest my Flames. Hayato, my little brother, is going to be going to pre-school soon, so I'm doing my best to learn how to cook so that I can make him lunchboxes with love, instead of the cooks' plain packs.

Thanks for the recipes,

Bianchi

* * *

Dear Bianchi,

Congratulations on crushing your enemies underfoot! My cooking is steadily progressing towards edible-looking, so we're both improving. :)

What are your Flames, by the way? You know that I'm a Rain. Also, you are an excellent elder sister! The closest I have is Oregano, but she's one and a half decades older than me and more like a cool aunt.

Also, sir wants me to learn an instrument, so any suggestions? Turmeric advised the piano, and Lal supports percussion on the basis that it would mean waking sir up at ungodly hours in the morning. Oregano has no opinion on instruments beyond the fact that a proper computer programmer doesn't need to learn them to produce music.

Your friend,

Basil

* * *

Dear Basil,

I think that the piano is a good fit, given that Hayato plays the piano and he enjoys it a lot. On the other hand, selfishly speaking, I want a bit of variety in my friends. Maybe woodwinds or strings? Your lung capacity, given your age, might mean that woodwinds aren't a good choice, but you can learn the violin with the small versions and then progress upwards to standard-sized ones as you grow.

You could hold duets with Hayato, even!

Your friend,

Bianchi

* * *

**Iruka interlude:**

Squeak-squeak-whistle-click-whistle, that's Iruka to you twoleggers, thank you very much, was a smart dolphin with a wonderful family.

Elder-sibling-playmate was clearly a marine mammal trapped in a landlubber's body, which was why Elder-sibling-playmate was smarter than him. Loud-yellow-elephant-seal, on the other hand, was clearly a silly finless creature, which was why Iruka could easily train Yellow-elephant-seal to give him food. It was easy: If Iruka attacked Spiny-sea-urchin's picture, then Loud-yellow-elephant-seal would give Iruka snacks. Of course, Iruka could also get snacks if he attacked Loud-angry-bull-shark while Spiny-sea-urchin was around, so it wasn't as if Iruka needed to attack Spiny-sea-urchin's picture, especially if Elder-sibling-playmate was present, since Elder-sibling-playmate liked Spiny-sea-urchin.

The other people in Elder-sibling-playmate's school were fine though. The matriarch was Small-scary-stonefish, who had blue hair, and there was also Steady-sperm-whale, who was nice and normal. Finally, there was also Sharp-sea-snake, who gave Iruka the juiciest flying fish.

Iruka had the best school.

* * *

**So, what would Basil learn?**

**Woodwinds, given his extraordinary lung capacity when it comes to talking Iemitsu's ear off without coming up for breath? Or a fiddle, to win souls in bets?**


	16. Chapter 16

I ended up with the violin, in case you were wondering, since I was familiar with traditional bamboo flutes from my Kiri life, and the memories associated with them were Complicated. The result was that the CEDEF's living quarters now had the screeching of dying cats added to sir's intermittent wailing. I wasn't sure which was worse. My nightmarish playing drove sir to use the Harmony aspect of his Sky Flames just to alter the noise into something survivable, while Oregano set Turmeric to finding a combat-suitable violin so that she could plop me in front of mobs trying to flee from her and use my horrifying playing as an anti-personnel weapon. Lal's solution was gun range earmuffs and occupying me with training. Mostly hand-to-hand. Not that hand-to-hand was unwelcome, but toddler-sized opponents who bounced off walls weren't particularly common.

While I was far from the level of skill necessary for duet-playing, Bianchi did send me an invitation to one of her little brother's recitals.

* * *

"Sir?" I waved the letter at my shishou, "Bianchi invited me to visit her. Can I take a day off and go, please?"

I gazed up at him with limpid blue eyes. He quailed, but rallied. "Basil-kun, you shouldn't slack off! That's not how a good apprentice acts! Shishou's very disappointed in you!"

Slack off. Coming from the man who's slacking nature was so potent as to have literally imbued his paperwork with the same, I found it hard to accept, especially since I was the one holding the line against his corruption. Of course, rage is not the correct response for the sweet young lad who worshiped the ground sir walked on, so instead, I pretended to frown and think.

Then I brightened. "I get it now, sir! You're teaching me to be cunning about allocating my resources and to never forget to work! Alright, I shall be going to Bianchi's to engage in reconnaissance of the subject and save my vacation days for when I really need them! Thank you sir for teaching me this valuable lesson!"

Sir looked at me. I smiled beatifically. Sir opened his mouth. I channeled a puppy's concentrated sunshine eagerness. Sir finally broke under the weight of my idealistic expectations. Excellent.

"You'll need a chaperone though!" Sir seemed so excited about the obstacle he found to dissuade me. It was pathetic, really, like watching a lion attempt to use a knife and fork.

"Oregano?" I asked hopefully, looking at my elder sister/aunt figure, who had just come into the room, dressed in an atypically casual t-shirt and jeans ensemble.

Oregano grimaced, "I can't. Both Lal and I are stuck dealing with the kids from the Estraneo fiasco, so we won't be able to stand in. However, Turmeric's an imposing adult man, so he's checking the trigger s for the brats and not on the job."

I nodded. "Alright."

* * *

Unlike Oregano, Turmeric drove.

Why?

Because, "Oregano's still a few months to eighteen, so she can't legally drive in Italy. Besides, she's fond of public transport."

"Eighteen is the age of majority-and Oregano's underage?" I barely kept my voice from becoming a shriek.

"Yes… Basil," Turmeric looked at me using the rearview mirror, "Why is that such a surprise?"

"Nothing. This one assumed that Oregano's at least as old as thou art, Turmeric, for among thee, she is the one who commands most naturally."

"Hmmm, I suppose Maria does giving people that impression. What do you think should be the age of majority then, Basil, if you were so surprised?"

Maria=Oregano? I scrambled for an answer. Ten was a good age, wasn't it? You reached the double digits, that marked a turning point in your life-no that was young, even for shinobi, Genin were supposed to graduate at twelve/thirteen, though by that time I was running one fifth of Mizu no kuni, but weren't the civilians worse about that? No, better play it safe. "Fifteen?" I asked weakly.

I could see Turmeric's reflection wince. "While I'm pretty sure Maria would agree with you, that is a bit young. When I was that age, I was a hopeless teen. I have Maria to thank for towing me along with her into this position in life."

"Oh?" I leaned forward, because Oregano's the sort of person who would fit seamlessly into Chigiri or Kiri, and I wanted to have some childhood stories about her-it was only fair, she would have all of mine, after all.

Turmeric sighed as he turned a bend, "Maria's a Vongola Orphan. Her father was a low level underboss; Her mother was a average woman. Both she and her mother got kidnapped to force her father to betray the family, the man refused and both parents died, but she survived by virtue of activating her Flames. Afterwards, she was fostered by the CEDEF and sponsored to attend the Academy."

"It that what will happen to the Estraneo rescues?"

"That is what will happen to the Flame Active ones," Turmeric confirmed, "though given their number, I think we'll be taking first pick and then sending rest out among the Family and our Allies."

"Efficient." I complimented, "What about Oregano? Whenfore meeteth thou her? Wert thou a fosterling as well?"

"No." Turmeric chuckled, "My parents are still alive and well, as are my Opa und Oma. I was a pretty normal student, truth be told. It was just that I happened to stumble across the new prodigy crying in a supplies closet and not ask questions. Our friendship started from there."

"Then how did you get apprenticed to sir?" If Turmeric wasn't already a fosterling, not to mention "normal" to boot, he wouldn't be the sort to easily attract sir's attention. Sawada Iemitsu had a habit of going for the exotic, abnormal, and overboard, after all.

"Iemitsu gave Maria the apprenticeship offer when she was twelve, she only agreed on the condition that she got to take me along."

We parked. "Then she forced my Flames into Activation by sabotaging the timer on my bombs and nearly killing me." Turmeric added as an afterthought.

"Oh." I climbed out of the back seat, pulling the picnic basket with me. I had brought cookies, a cheesecake that Turmeric helped me make, a giant stack of Iruka postcards and a recipe from Vongola Quarto, copied from the Iron Fort's archives.

Bianchi was waiting. Her eyes slid over me and focused on Turmeric, as was expected with my lack of presence.

"Tis a pleasure to again be tete-a-tete with thee, Bianchi!" I called cheerfully.

"Basil!" Bianchi answered by running to greet me and sweeping me into a hug. I dangled (not)helplessly in her grip before being let down.

I grinned and hefted my offerings. "Let us make haste indoors and mayhaps to the kitchens-this one is possessed of much that must needs be enjoyed posthaste!"

Meaning that I was afraid the cheesecake would spoil in the hot sun-a possibility easily negated with Rain Flames, but that would be a rude flaunting of my power. Besides, I wanted to avoid accusations of food tampering.

Bianchi led the way into the main reception hall, chattering breathlessly along the way. "You have no idea what it's been like today. Father's more excited than I am!" We made a detour to her room to pick up her confectionery, then headed back downstairs.

"Hayato!"

Bianchi pulled a silver-haired boy from the crowd. "Hayato, this is my friend Basil, I hope that you can be friends with him as well! Basil's here to watch your first piano recital! Look, he's made you cookies and cake!"

She shoved a plate holding her biscuits and mine onto a plate, then continued without pause for breath, "Have some, and some made by your big sister as well! Tell us whose is better! Oh wait, it's time, here have a bite and wash it down, now good luck!"

"Good luck!" I chimed in, though I wasn't exactly in the best position to do that.

* * *

Hayato's playing was indeed excellent. However, it changed halfway through into something mad and wild, as if it had shed the trappings of civilization to return to rough-hewn primeval beauty. Not exactly my taste. Strange.

Beside me, Bianchi was clapping excitedly, along with the crowd, "Hayato's never shown this to me before," she whispered furiously, "I can't believe he managed to invent something on stage, this is awesome! Look, everyone loves it, I knew that my good luck cookies were a good idea!"

But unfortunately, I was Bloody-Mist pessimistic. Was the person on stage an imposter, a possession, a puppet, an illusion, or something weirder? I looked closer. Curses. I recognized the signs of poisoning. The "new style" was less the work of genius, and more the spasms of the body channeled into coherency by a talent that was beyond human. When did the young scion get poisoned? Was the poisoner among the guests? Were they still present? Who are their other targets?

If the Falcone heir was a target, then the rest of the family would be linked as well? Would Bianchi be a victim or a beneficiary?

"Bianchi." I said quietly, "Cast thy sight upon thy brother. Truly. Pierce thy veil of ecstasy."

"Huh? Basil, what do you mean?"

"This one begs thee to trust this one." I said, and laid the weight of a killer onto my words. "Thy brother is not in the throes of some divine inspiration, but the diabolism of poison. What has he consumed lately? Who has he come in contact with?"

"Wha-no-no one!" Bianchi replied, "Hayato's been too excited to eat, and the water he drinks is straight from the tap. All he's had are the cookies. Yours can't be poisoned, and the only time mine left my sight was when I came to meet you!"

Enough for an infiltrator. "We're finding Turmeric." I said flatly. "He may be an explosives expert, but Poison Cooking's given him some sort of grounding in poisons."

I snatched the probably adulterated cookies with one hand and grabbed Bianchi's arm with the other, then tugged her through the crowd.

"Wait-how does Turmeric know poison cooking?"

"This one is aware that it's a surprise." I said flatly, "He's German, so it's not like you can tell. Poison Cooking might actually be an improvement on the sauerkraut. Come on. Thy brother's life is at stake."

I was almost tempted to use Killing intent to cleave a path but I expected that to turn out in the least optimal way possible. There he was, talking to three women at once and downing another flute of champagne. As I watched, he kissed the cheek of the server and arranged the tray of empty glasses into a symmetrical flower. All three women giggled.

"Turmeric!" I called, pitching my voice to carry. "Does Miss Oregano know that you're drinking again? She says that you shouldn't drink before driving and even Lal agrees!"

Lal for a Situation. Sir for standard things.

Turmeric winced. "Sorry, ladies, but duty calls!" He gave a gallant bow and crouched before me.

"Sitrep?" He murmured.

"Poisoning of Hayato Falcone. Suspected to be these." I was succinct, and shoved the bloody things in his face.

To my surprise, my colleague took a bite. "It's poison cooking alright. Heavy handed, but damned powerful. Who made these?"

To my side, Bianchi's eyes widened. "I-I did, sir-you're saying that-that-I'm the reason-"

"Hey now." Turmeric said gently, "It's not your fault. Poison Cooking's a bit of a bitc-ah-bit of a bother to identify, given that the maker has natural immunity."

"But-" I hugged the much taller girl as she started crying, "But mother said to put love into my cookies. Lots and lots of love-and that's what I did! She even tasted them and said that they were perfect!"

Did she.

"I'll deal with this." Turmeric said calmly. "Basil, if you would?"

I inclined my head.

"Bianchi," I addressed my friend, "Thou can not be seen like this. Come on, This one will find us somewhere to hide."

Still too shocked to comprehend anything, the pink-haired girl mutely complied.

For me, to fade from others' awareness was something that transcended instinct, akin to the thoughtless necessity of breathing, taking another with me was harder, requiring conscious exercise of the exact mechanisms that enabled my insignificance. Mist gave form to Rain, Rain gave force to Mist, and in their merging attention was drained away. I led the Bianchi back to her room, then dispelled the not-quite-a-genjutsu.

* * *

I poured water, then waited in supportive silence.

"What can I do?" Hayato's sister croaked, mopping up the last of her tears with the corner of her comforter.

"Train." I replied evenly, "Make for thy weapon both sheath and hilt, so that it may be used as thou wilt and not cut innocent and deserving alike. This one can seek for thee a teacher. Inform thy brother, so that he may understand and be wary."

And the steady plodding coming from the stairs was Turmeric.

"Tell Hayato?" Bianchi buried her face in her pillow for a moment. "I can't exactly tell him that I poisoned him, Basil."

"Nonlethal poisoning is not always unwelcome." I said, because Yagura had made me eat Bijuu-chakra laced food until he got his chakra control back and I had developed a resistance to Isobu's corrosive power and I didn't disagree with that decision, "But it still requires prior consent."

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in."

Turmeric wiped his brow. "Well, that was unpleasant. Bianchi, your parents want you to keep poisoning Hayato, I'm pretty sure that I can't legally stop them, and right now, the best I can do is not antagonize them so that they don't try to stop me."

Bianchi shot up from the bed, "I'm not-!"

"I know." Turmeric held up a hand, "Which is why I'm offering to teach you how to control your powers. Poison Cooking is a rare gift, no one should be forced to use it like that. Do you want to learn from me? Or do you want me to find someone else?"

"No-you're fine."

"Alright," Turmeric said, "Then let's go inform your parents."

"Basil," He continued, "This."

I took the note. On it was written:

_You're untraceable. Find Trident Shamal and tell him about this, ask him to keep an eye on Lavina's son. Discreetly_ .

Understandable. I relaxed out of notice and proceeded with my task.

To think that I could have a normal birthday party.

* * *

**OMAKE**

* * *

**I'm making a Harry Potter crossover with With all due respect sir (meaning none), titled Hell is Empty, all its Devils are at Boarding School. Featuring 11-year-old Basil and 13-year-old Bel at Hogwarts as they assassinate Fudge, discredit Umbridge, and carry out the hit on Voldemort. Not necessarily in that order.**

_So, fiddles and souls…_

I grinned. "Your name is Harry, and though it might be a sin, won't you take my bet, being the best that's ever been?"

Harry Potter was backing away quite swiftly, but he got tripped by Bel's well-placed foot. "I'm not the best-!"

I threw him a fiddle and hefted my own violin.

.

.

.

Of course, I won. "I'll be taking that soul now, Harry!"

Harry drew his wand, taking a defensive stance.

"Done!" I chirped.

He looked down at himself, as if expecting to have become a ghost. "I don't feel different…"

"Of course not, illiterate peasant." Bel snorted, "The Page only said that he'll be taking a soul, he didn't specify which soul."

"I have another soul?"

"Nay, instead say a soul fragment, of a certain fool fleeing from death." I shrugged and let the dark fragment dissipate into the air, "Bereft of that, thou mayest find thyself no more possessed of dreams of long dark corridors, and no more bearing the ability to speak the Serpent Tongue. A fair price to pay, to have the dark lord be more mortal than before."


	17. Chapter 17

"This is obviously poisoned." Turmeric said, pointing at the boiled sheep's intestines (he wasn't wasting good food), "Poison Cooking has a natural glamour which Vongola Hyper Intuition subconsciously dismisses and Mists and Poison Cookers can notice if they pay attention. There are ways to add a more solid glamour, but right now, I'm teaching you how to recognize when your cooking is poisoned to prevent accidents."

Bianchi frowned, "What about non-accidents?"

Turmeric shrugged, "Then you make sure you made it poisonous enough, but that's for next lesson."

* * *

File. Files. Reports. Ugh, was that a l or an i? I looked at the pile of correspondence kept together by an industrial binder clip. I despised having to couch conversation in useless pleasantries when the formalities did not communicate subtle gradients of meaning like court manners did. Also, __grammar__. If I saw another misplaced apostrophe today, I would liquidize a brain. A line of fire burned across by face. I stopped walking.

"If the page dies, then the page is a peasant." I immediately looked up. Bel was perched in a nook into the ceiling. A lazy Kyoukau (I was mixing Kirigakure sensory functions into the jutsu) later, and I realized that a Nuibairi-esque wire trap was laid in front of me. Three-dimensional, interweaving but not to the point that its components could not stand alone. A beautiful tapestry of death, were it not for the warning wires, fitting for a prince of blood.

"Thy working's purpose is done, o prince, for this one has been warned," I said lightly, "Willt thou not come down?"

Bel leapt down. "What has the page been doing all this time?" He sulked, "He should have heard about the pitchforked peasants."

"Pitchforked?" I grinned, "Bearing such or pierced by the same?"

"Ushishishi, both! The last peasant children are the revolting sort."

"But not as vicious as thee, my prince."

"Shishishishi, evidently."

"Basil!" The bane of my existence popped up from the other side of the wire web and spread his arms wide, "I've been looking for you everywhere, but Iemitsu-shishou said that you were busy! Yes! I've finally found you! I've come to recognize that I was being very rude to just expect you to be my Rain, so I'm going to do things properly and Court you!"

I. Am. Six.

Debriefing in the Iron Fort had reminded the irritant of my existence, resulting in him attempting to harass me, though it had been relatively easy to avoid him till now. And sir was running interference? I was touched.

"Get thee gone!" I hissed, just as Bel's knives pinned the overgrown child's foot to the ground.

"OWWW!" Massimo wailed, and I finally recognized just where in the Iron Fort we were. I slammed my foot into a particular set of tiles, grabbed Bel, and let us fall.

"Kufufufu, Bel, who is this?" There was a boy in the hideyhole with us, nibbling on a giant slab of chocolate. I recognized him from the pictures of Subject #F69.

"Ushishishi," Bel answered #F69 with a laugh of his own, "Mist-peasant, the Prince has brought his Page to see you."

"Basil. Honored." I added on cue, "But…" I pointed to the hole in the ceiling, from which was emitting Massimo's wailing.

A snap of the boy's fingers, and the old mechanisms activated, sliding the ceiling back. "Rokudo Mukuro," he said with a bow, "the same."

"Rokudo. The six paths of reincarnation. The same number in thy eye. Is there a link?"

"Indeed. And you offered a false name, 'Basil'."

A spray of knives were deflected by a trident that appeared out of nowhere. "The Prince's Page's name is whatever the Page decides it is, Mist-peasant." Bel then laughed, "Ushishishi, unless the Prince asks and he agrees, of course."

"This one has chosen to be called Basil." I said mildly, "So long as this one remains as is. Should this one become another, then this one will assume another name. But like recognizes like, Mukuro-dono. Thy name is not the one thou wert given upon birth."

"Kufufufu… So you realized, Basil-kun? I have walked the six paths of reincarnation, and thus become what I am today."

"So the mist-peasant has died six times." Bel said cheerfully, "Will he come back after a seventh?"

"I should believe so." Said Mukuro.

"But six only are the paths of reincarnation, and the seventh would be different in nature." I frowned, "Does being shot Special Bullets count as deaths?"

"We could experiment!" Bel was, naturally enough, quite enthusiastic about the idea of murder.

I had died before. Twice now. More than anyone else currently living, I knew the gifts and curses that come from seeing what the living could not. Death is the greatest advantage a genjutsu master (or mistress) could ever be given, and I saw Mukuro's progress reports. He was hiding something. His progress should have been exponential, not this steady (controlled) curve.

Rokudo Mukuro was the counterpart of Daemon Spade, the one who, if fate had its way, would become part of the Harmony which mirrored the First generation. And he had his own game.

A gamble.

And a clam opened in my hand, breathing out mist that curled into a lavender dragon that undulated, serpentine, through the air, before turning into an eldritch horror that one couldn't quite focus on. "This one too is a Mist who has passed through death." I said cheerfully, "Shall we study together?"

So yes. We were now reincarnation buddies.

* * *

Being an intelligence agent and at the top of the hierarchy meant that I had terrific clearance. Being sir's apprentice and the current designated sir-wrangler meant that I had free reign regarding all of his paperwork. Being a sensible, Chigiri-raised young lady meant that I was very good at Interfering With My Superior's Business.

I spared some thought for the latest in Mukuro-watching/study club. Bel had not joined us for two or three meetings, though that was understandable, given that while Mukuro lived in the same building as I, Bel was situated in the Varia Castle. Mukuro and I had been discussing the possibility of new members to our study club. I was naturally in favor, given that the stronger his emotional ties, the less likely he was to harm the Vongola.

I blinked at what was in front of me.

Ottabio had submitted a red-flagged report. While I was most certainly petty enough to lose the rat's paperwork, I was not so fond as to not ascertain its contents first. Reading its first lines, which detailed the imminence of a coup, my finely honed instincts as the Bloody Mist Government had me snatching up the report, sticking it in a Mist-dimensional-pocket, and running to find the one person whose interests were perfectly aligned with mine.

"Oregano." I panted, shoving the papers at her, "Critical. Now. Before sir finds out."

Because as the External Adviser, sir was bound by honor and law to bring this before the Ninth, and I had suspicions about subconscious grudges and how they affected his behavior. Fortunately for Xanxus, Oregano and I both belonged to the Tenth Generation, and it was to the Tenth Generation that our loyalties lay.

She took in the information quickly. Then she scribbled a series of notes on her receipt paper, tore them out, and with a flick of Flame, sent the animated memos away. The same was done with the report, though she made that one invisible.

"Arm yourself." She said flatly. "We leave in five minutes."

At the door of the castle, she hissed out, "You, unlike me, have a talent for talking to people. Find Xanxus, ask him__what the fuck he's thinking__, and convince him otherwise. I will be having a __conversation__ with Lussuria."

The journey upstairs was easy, as the commotion Oregano caused drew any potential attention away from my insignificance. I was not quite Basil at this point. The skills I was drawing on were not the skills of the Young Lion's apprentice, but the Yondaime Mizukage's Inconstant Reflection. And this was not the first time I had smothered the fires of a coup. Humble beginnings, talent, a demonic desposition. And now, a coup. The parallels to Momochi Zabuza were obvious.

Readying myself to dodge, I spoke, "Mammon is slovenly, and gives thee not leal service."

And I rolled out of the way of a fireball. Even without trying Sunyata, battle-calm had settled over me. "Ottabio is a traitor, but thy loyal councilors should have dissuaded thee from making the Last Argument before all other options are exhausted."

"Explain." Xanxus growled, levelling his guns at me. I did not flinch, for as I was now, I did not have the capacity for flinching.

"Ottabio is an intelligence agent and thus loosely under CEDEF purview," I answered impassively, "This one intercepted his emergency report on the coup and came in the hopes of deescalating the situation, as did Oregano."

"Why."

"A coup weakens the Vongola. It destroys thy position. Erases thy honor. Sets an unwelcome precedent. Though Ottava founded the Varia, and her Guardians numbered among the Independent Assassination Squad's number, they were never Officer and Guardian at once. What would become of thy Harmony should thou wear the Boss's Ring?" I asked, "Would they take on the duties of both Varia and Vongola's Main Family? Would they find successors? Would they leave a derelict post? A coup is the final argument to misrule, but what warrants it now? Challenge the heir as outlined in law, and give thy endeavor legitimacy."

"You don't know?" The Boss of the Varia laughed the shuddering laugh of the madman, "You mean you don't know what the problem is, little brat? You think I can just waltz in and fucking win the rings, as if the old man didn't fucking lie and could actually deliver as fucking promised? You think that the fucking family doesn't need a fucking change? Federico nearly got killed and the lying old man just said 'wait and see'! The fucking Family isn't one anymore, so if I need to kill half of the trash to change it then I fucking will!"

The Vongola Rings were blood-locked-was he implying that he wasn't actually the Ninth's son? And that was veering dangerously close to bloodline purge territory.

"That explains Timoteo's favor." This fascination with pedigree was so utterly civilian. How far could a phenotype spread, what power could it keep? The Bloody Mist counted student lines, the bonds of choice and value proven and earned. By the logic of my second homeland, "Thou art most favored among his sons, for thou alone were kept by choice, and thou alone may be shown favor bereft of personal fondness muddling succession. Twas not the potential of a babe that Timoteo saw when he gave thee his name, but rather the shape of the man thou hast become. Thou art beloved, though the foolishness of tradition denies thou thy birthright. Yet this one finds that the inheritance of the Family is not one thou wouldst wish to bear."

I noticed the twitch of the trigger finger just in time to duck. "You fucking brat!" He snarled, "So you think I'm unworthy?"

"This one said no such thing." I replied evenly. "But though a square peg, fitting not in a round hole, may still serve the purpose of a more tailored support, it is an uncomfortable affair for both parties. Thou art martial, management is not thy nature. There are others who could be stuck upstairs."

"Hah!" He laughed, "So you want-"

"This one's loyalty is to the Vongola, and to the Tenth Generation foremost." I interrupted, "The Varia needs a Sky to hold it in harmony, and the Vongola needs a Sky Heir. Two Skies are better than one, and this one will suffer a thief of inheritance no more than thou, hence the second may only come to the Main Family."

He snorted.

I shrugged, shedding the dispassion, and continued dryly, "Worry not, this one will support thee before Massimo, and give thee full fealty should you become Tenth, no matter what."

"Little psycho."

"__Antichrist__."

There was an explosion. "That would be Ottabio."

* * *

OMAKE

* * *

****Why Basil didn't participate on the rescue Mukuro mission:****

"Sir, look at what we three summoned!"

"Kufufufu. We call it Cutethulhu."

"Ushishishi, the Prince has royal pets."


	18. Chapter 18

The problem was that none of the people present were accustomed to playing defensive, and with Lussuria down, Oregano had been forced on the back foot in protecting her friend from Ottabio's attacks, and that left Ottabio with an advantage. "You thought I was just your punching bag?" He snarled at Oregano, "Just a fucking buttmonkey for your fucking amusement, BITCH?"

Half the load-bearing walls on the ceiling collapsed from a stray attack. One of the nice things about being short was that I didn't have to duck out of Xanxus's line of fire as he shot twin streams of Wrath Flames at the (quite clearly deranged) Cloud.

Absent Officers: Squalo, who was most familiar with the previous Sword Emperor's partner. Mammon, whose Mist Creations would be quite helpful right now, and Leviathan, who was stuck in the infirmary. The threat was not just from the target, but also the environment. Bel's cackling rose in pitch as he took advantage of Ottabio's fixation on Oregano to set a series of razor wires. They crippled one leg but Ottabio's Propagated stomp broke them. Wrath Flames forced Ottabio to dodge, further exacerbating his wounds, and knives caught him as he rolled. There was an ominous crack from above, and glowing paper ribbons flew up to bind and reinforce the shattering ceiling.

It was the chaos that suited me best. Silent Killing was done in mist, for mist obscured sight, but I did not need to be unseen to be unnoticed, and my set square/boomerang was sharp. I skirted the room, taking cover behind a ruined couch as knives and bullets and Flame flew to wait for an opening. Bare hands to the ground, I felt a tremor. Too light to be an earthquake. There was something beneath us, and it was coming closer. Ottabio was grinning despite his injuries.

I shouted a warning. Xanxus bared his teeth and adjusted his stance. Half of Oregano's paper spear unraveled to mummify Lussuria as protection, and the rest multiplied until the weapon thickened and grew beyond its original length. Bel retreated to the corner furthest from the sound.

The ground split open. "BEHOLD!" Laughed Ottabio, gasping for breath but victorious, "The Vecchio Mosca! Stronger than any of you traitors, and the one that will wipe you all from this world!"

It was a titan whose every step shook the earth. It was a metal monstrosity that seemed immune to physical blows. It was not flesh and blood and doomed to die. And orange-red destruction met it face to face. It was stopped in its tracks by Xanxus' assault, but when the flames abated, it was scorched but functional.

Then, it opened fire.

I dove back onto the ground.

Homing missiles were blasted out of the air by shots from Xanxus's X-guns. Bel nimbly avoided the shots from one of its hands, and Oregano's spear spun to block the other hand's barrage on both her and Lussuria. Ottabio, I noted, was taking advantage of the cover fire to advance towards them. As expected.

"Other brat!" Xanxus snarled, "The fucking trash isn't shooting at you. Deal with it, leave Ottabio to me!"

I didn't bother with acknowledgement. It was true. Whatever targeting system the Vecchio Mosca used, it somehow excluded me (even machines overlooked me, my sense of presence was definitely an issue). And so… The Vecchio Mosca relied on artillery, and was capable of surviving a onslaught of Xanxus's Wrath Flames, so whatever Rain I used in a frontal assault wouldn't work any better. However, it was hardly limber enough for grappling, meaning that I needed to get close. Very close.

Ottabio was stopped in his tracks by the combined force of the Ripper and Timoteo's most powerful son. Sharpness gleamed and power destroyed, and air became death as fire shot through wires in a orchestra of destruction.

It appeared that the Mosca was less effective than Ottabio could have hoped.

I cleared the distance in a second, then leapt onto the Mosca's shoulders. There was a button labeled [Deactivation, which was either the deactivation button or a trap. I expected it to be a trap, but closer examination revealed a significant lack of pop up panels or other trap-hiding things. Starting Kyoukau as a precaution, I hit the button.

The sound of splitting stone had my head snapping up to see the ceiling crumbling. I did not stop to consider whether it was the result of my actions or another's, just poured all my power into Kyoukau. The infinitely soft caress of fog-rain in the back of my head grew to a pitter-patter, then the rattle of a thunderstorm, and finally swelled into the roar of a monsoon.

Flame rose, and darkness fell.

* * *

Foreign territory. Semi-hostile. Ingrained instinct had me snapping back to full consciousness without any outward indication. Divinities above, I had been living in the lap of luxury. My room in the CEDEF was solid and well-saturated with my own power, and traced by the cotton-candy Sky that was my teacher's--it had registered as safe. This was hostile territory--the hoard of a dragon of the west, all dark possessive rage.

Outside, Oregano was snapping at someone. "No thank you. We are quite fine as we are, there is no need to troubleyourselves with arranging rooms for us--sit down, Superbi, I don't care if you think the tenth generation is wasted on the ninth, I will not tolerate poaching. Bel, you can go in, Basil should be awake by now."

I sighed and actually put on the appearance of wakefulness. Then, I caught the knives coming for my lungs.

"If the Page was the King's," Bel sulked, more blades fanning out in his hand, "Then we wouldn't have to lie."

"And how, Prince mine, is grievous injury to aid us in our plight?" I asked mildly.

"If the Page was hurt, then the Page would stay." And I had to force my exhausted body to move before I got skewered.

Well, while we did consider deliberate physical harm a solution to problems, that was a bit unhealthy, even for Kiri-nin.

"Cease." I said, and layered it with the inhuman calm of the Dark Divisions.

Bel stopped and tilted his head. Waiting.

"Th--" no, "--I have chosen to be CEDEF's Basilicum. That is paramount to my identity."

"Not even the Prince?"

"Is the Prince the Prince without the Page?"

"Yes." Bel sulked.

"Then Basil is still Basil even without the Prince."

"But not the Page."

"I am Basil first." I said patiently, "And the Page second. A close second, but still a part that I can live without. However, it is also a part that I won't live without."

"But the Page is mine!" And I was reminded of how, while Bel was a genius, he was a child. I bit my tongue to keep my tears at bay, trying to remind myself that I had already drunk deep of the cup of loss when I was this age in the Bloody Mist, yet the pain once dulled with time now burned fresh anew, as sharp as it was when I was ten and my mother died upon the battlefield and my father drank poison on his sickbed. Why? Why did I feel as if I was again an child in truth?

"Somewhat thine." I replied, "Yet I am, as thou art, first and foremost, myself's. And thou art, somewhat, mine."

"Yes!"

"Then why, my prince, did I find out about the coup from an enemy?" I asked quietly. "The coup would have failed, and I would have learnt about it from liars. There are confidences that we would not betray, loyalties that rank higher than this which exists between us. Three great ties bind me to this world, master, liege-lord, and thee. Of these three, only with thee are we two equals."

I took a breath, "Neither of us two would give our places up for the other, and neither of us two should ask it. I am CEDEF, you are Varia, I would rather reign in Heaven than serve in Hell, and thou wouldst never cease to be Prince to thy King."

"The Prince know that there will be secrets." Bel said, flicking knives at me.

I let one score a deep gash on my dominant hand, then wiped the blood on my face. "CEDEF's heir and Varia's Prince will have secrets unspoken." I offered, holding out my still-bleeding hand as blood dried into a mask, "But Page and Prince will have no lies between them."

Bel took it.

* * *

**Interlude: The Hitman, the COMSUBIN, and the Joker**

* * *

"Iemitsu."

The Young Lion inclined his head at his old teacher, currently disguised as a pile of paperwork. It was very intimidating. "Reborn."

"Two of your kids just headed off a Varia coup."

"Oh?" Iemitsu fell back on tried-and-true defense mechanisms. "Haha! My apprentices are awesomely scary, I know. Don't call Oregano a kid though~?" His crotch twanged with remembered pain.

His Intuition had him turn towards the doorway. Lal Mirch came in a second later, arms crossed and goggles down--oh no, she was angry. "Don't play dumb, baka-metsu." She snapped, "You're a constipated idiot when personal things are concerned, but this isn't just personal. Basil's pretty obviously not just a red herring now that he's just derailed Ottavio's idiot plan. Oh don't get me wrong, the kid might have started as a body double, but we both know that your Intuition's pushing at you to make him more. It's starting to be obvious, by now, that your Antichrist is revenge."

"Revenge?" Iemitsu gawked at his colleague, "What are you talking about Lal? And yes! You've finally admitted that Basil-kun is the Antichrist! I'm so happy~! This is the first time I've won an argument in, like, forever, Reborn, you saw that right? This is an historical moment! Please, Leon, can you take a photo? Pleasy-please?"

"Stop with the deflecting, baka-metsu."

Even after all these years, he still froze obediently at Reborn's Tone.

"Your kid gets sealed, you keep laughing, but after a year, the new kid turns up, and at first glance, he's just like Tsuna--wide eyes, good Flames, worships the ground you walk on. Everyone thinks that you're just coping with the guilt by getting a surrogate son without the pesky political issues. Then it turns out that chipper as your apprentice is, he's vicious enough for Prince the Ripper to coo and as far from naïve and doe-eyed as you can get. Just because you grew up doesn't mean you've gotten harder for me to read, baka-metsu." Reborn squeaked, and Iemitsu double checked to make sure Leon wasn't transforming into Leon-mallet, even though Reborn did switch into his Therapist Borneud outfit, "You are subconsciously avenging yourself on Ninth."

Lal jumped to higher ground and ground out, "In case you didn't realize, baka-metsu, this is an Intervention. Your kids are playing with Internal Politics now, and you'd better get your head screwed on straight. Now, let me lay out the situation."

"But there is no situation!" He wailed, "Basil-kun is just a scary Antichrist that I found in the Library! I promised to feed him and teach him and not make him Robin, that's it!"

"Don't get shifty with me." Lal snapped,"Timoteo could have had his darling pseudo-grandson, but instead he got someone who would have prophesied and supported Xanxus' Reign of Blood if not for complications. You definitely intended it. Supporting how Basil acts towards Massimo made it pretty obvious. More than that, Tsuna's still eligible and you're underperforming on purpose while looking at pictures of kindergarteners with potentially troubled presents from Flame Lines--you don't just want a collection of loyal subordinates for your son, you want monsters that will destroy anything that dares threaten him--you don't care about what happens to the Vongola after your retirement, as long as your family is all right. That's why you really are taking Basilicum seriously as your heir while not discouraging Massimo--that boy's loyalty is to the CEDEF's people, his friends, and you, not to the Vongola that produced the spoiled brat."

"Got me." Said the Young Lion, brow raised and radiating danger. "What do you want me to do about it?"

"Ninth is my colleague," said his teacher, "But you're my student. Figure out how to keep me from taking sides. Or," There was a tell-tale click of Leon-gun, "You won't like the consequences."

Lal snorted, "Stop being a fucking drama queen, both of you. Sawada, do your ducking job and aim your torpedo at one fucking ship and talk to the kid before he starts making things worse on accident, or have you forgotten that his Ring damn well will?"

**Looking for a beta. Anyone interested?**


	19. Chapter 19

Oregano looked at the trusty binder in my hands. "Where did you get that? You did not take-nevermind." She sighed, "I expect that you've already decided on the paperwork."

"Yes to both questions." I replied, frowning, "This one remembers not removing this from this one's room, and yet when this one needed its contents, this one found it to have already been brought."

I pulled out sheaves of paper from the binder and put them together with industrial grade binder clips.

Oregano saw the clips, "I don't suppose you know where you got those from either, Basil."

"No."

She nodded. "Very well, give them to the Varia, then we'll be leaving."

* * *

I slept through the return trip and though I was tempted to let Oregano carry me to my room, I was just Kiri enough and spiteful enough to walk under my own power.

Turmeric ran to meet us. He saw that we did look rather triumphant, even if we were less than unscathed, and said, "I got your message, and from your expressions, I assume that it was successful."

"Evidently." Oregano scrubbed a hand over her face, "Now, what's the situation here at home?"

"Less fucked up than you think." Turmeric replied with dry cheer, "Iemitsu gave me a gag order the moment he realized, _Reborn_ came in, and we've all been working on keeping everything locked down."

"Excellent," I yawned, "This one is making the Varia file their own HR things, because they deserve it for being idiots, so we'll be receiving a courier for the Postmortem Psychiatric Examination and other…things. I've written my report too, so-"

Turmeric caught me before I walked into a wall.

"-here it is." I mumbled, handing him the document. "If you'll excuse this one, this one has a strong need for a nap before going back to this one's rooms."

Buzz buzz buzz language centers shutting down autopilot initiated nothing beneath my feet water.

Iruka gently bumped me in the back, keeping my face above water.

"Poor [Elder-sibling-playmate]," he whistled, "With stupid landlubber blowholes that aren't in the right place."

_Yes, yes. Now I want to sleep_.

"Port hemisphere or Starboard hemisphere?"

_Both._

"Stupid landlubber traditions. Just because you know how to blend in doesn't mean you're actually restricted to _sleeping blind_."

_Not today though. I'm too exhausted._

"Okay."

* * *

As the saying goes, it never rains but it pours. So not one hour into my well-deserved rest, Sir came crashing into Iruka's room, shouted, "Reborn's coming, Basil! Protect me!"

I blinked open bleary eyes(another sign that I was distressingly comfortable here-I didn't automatically snap awake). My lovely dolphin little-sibling helpfully pushed me closer to shore. I grimaced and climbed onto the banks.

The pitter-patter of footsteps reached my ears, swiftly heralding the presence of the World's Greatest Hitman.

"Ciaossu."

"Signor Reborn." I greeted politely, "Can this one be of assistance to thee?"

The Arcobaleno was holding a green pistol, and his smile was not-civilian. Or so I believed, it wasn't as if my Chigiri peers ever smiled differently (unless you counted undercover smiles, but I didn't). So, he smiled and said, "I am looking for my idiot former student, Basilicum. Where is Iemitsu?"

I widened my eyes, "Master Iemitsu, Signor Reborn? This one does not know." I looked down at my soaked clothes, "As thou hast seen, this one has but lately awoken, and has had no opportunity to this one's master find."

"Really, Tiny-Basil?" He raised his eyebrow, and his eye were dark. Unnaturally dark. Why had I never noticed it?

I was suddenly staring up the barrel of a gun. Why was I on the ground? (Shodai, I was tired). "I'll ask you again, Basilicum." He threatened, "Where is your silly shishou?"

"This one apologizes if offense was given." I replied evenly.

"Last chance." The safety of his gun clicked.

"This one apologizes." I repeated placidly.

A bullet clipped my ear. In the water behind me, Iruka made to attack. I assured him it was okay.

"Where. Is. Sawada. Iemitsu?"

"This one presumes Earth," I answered, just a touch of panic in his voice, "With good odds on sir remaining in Eurasia!"

I flinched as I saw his expression darken, bit my tongue for a moment for composure, forced a breath into my lungs, and carefully enunciated, "It has been a tiring day, Signor Reborn. This one begs thee to forgive this one's previous misconduct. This one knows not where sir is, yet despite that, this one has some idea of sir's usual haunts. Should thou desire it, this one could provide thee with a list of sir's usual haunts, though this one, being in this state, would be of little help to thee in the actual process of searching."

Killing Intent. Strong enough to darken the edges of my sight, so long as I was Basil, child of six. "Basilicum," Reborn ground out, "I shall make this very clear. I chased Sawada down here. He most certainly ran past you. Tell me, before I reach the end of my patience. Where. Is. He?"

I forced myself into hyperventilation, chased the blackness, fell into unconsciousness instead. I would not be denied my rightful rest, Hitman or no.

* * *

Iemitsu knew what he was doing-really! He did! Scary scary Basil-kun had led _Reborn_ of all people around in circles and not only did he stand up to Reborn, he succeeded on holding up under Reborn's interrogation-that showed that Basil could keep a secret from anyone if he wanted to, and that Basil wanted to keep Iemitsu's secrets, even from someone as forceful as Reborn. So, that meant that he was right to trust his youngest apprentice, and just like Lal said, he was comitting to the decision (scary), and telling Basil about his problems.

Basil sat sieza, knees together, hands folded in his lap (or maybe not his? Basil was a good student, and Iemitsu had explained the difference between a woman's sieza and a man's. Something to ask later), and gaze steady-not with the tranquility of a koi pond but the absolute stillness of a sword bared and awaiting an opponent's attack-and without judgment, despite the fact that he had just spilled his heart out to a boy not even in the double digits.

Iemitsu would have held back. On Nana, his guilty relief when she awakened Flames and became part of his world, his horror at the role her Flames would have forced her into, the warmth of their nascent Bond that grew as true love blossomed. On Tsuna, his precious little cub that he didn't know how to treat, apart from not mimicking his own father, the worry turned to fear as he saw a portrait's features in his young son's face and felt the sparks of Sky, and how Timoteo, now just Nono's sealing had trapped his beloved wife into a downward spiral of Discord and Lightning Fixation and Mist that turned her into a parody of what she once was, even as little distance away, the Autumn Rain's wife paid the price for Vongola's presence, dying just because of an instant's lack of discretion.

But he listened to his Intuition telling him to trust his apprentice's unwavering fidelity, inhuman loyalty, and alien, alien morality.

Basil sat quietly, wearing a not-expression of focus. After his mouth was dry and his energy was spent, his heir again met his eyes calmly.

"I understand sir." Said the boy he had made the Antichrist, "My loyalty remains with thee and thy line after that." Chin raised, the child continued, "The liege lord of my liege lord is owed no fealty from me. Should Federico die and Enrico prove weak, then my young master shall sit upon Nono's seat."

There was something old and cold in his apprentice's eyes, something from a harsher and more brutal age when blood and oath and loyalty were tied in a way they now weren't as he pronounced, "By ink and pen or poison and silk or fire and steel, I shall see it done."

This was convenient, too convenient, but his Intuition held it true.

A breath, two. And that bared-blooded steel that sat as a lady and spoke like a samurai folded into the shape of a boy. Sieza was discarded for a childish tatehiza, and it was just cheerful, excessively competent Basil again.

* * *

"Massimo persists in importuning me." I reported grumpily to sir. As had become the norm, Massimo's attempts at Rain-acquiring was spoken of with ambiguous phrasing that could also refer to the solicitation of carnal knowledge.

"Exactly!" Sir said, and though he grinned, there was something darker behind that not-just-a-mask. "What does that tell you about Massimo, Basil?"

"His desire for a meeting and my allegiance is great." I observed.

"Yes, Basil! Massimo wants something, so he will pay something for that, meaning…" Sir paused, and beckoned for me to complete his sentence, wiggling his eyebrows.

"Meaning that I have leverage." I rested my chin on my hands and swung my legs, "But I don't want anything from him."

"Uh-uh!" Sir held up a finger, "That's where your wise and worldly shishou comes in! If he wants something and you don't, then he's at a disadvantage, which means that he will be forced to accept _your _ terms. Say… leaving you alone for the next year?"

I tilted my head. "That…could be acceptable."

Sir ruffled my hair, "That's my apprentice! And by the way, are you a boy or a girl or something more, Basil?"

"I am a girl." I replied firmly, "But I have been named Basilicum, and so long as I am he, I shall be _him_."

"Okay then, Basil-kun!" Sir grinned.

I smiled slightly. From the information sir had disclosed to me, my Young Master was under Kin-Juinjutsu-a forbidden cursed seal, and clearance for the documents that recorded such a technique was, in peacetime, only in the hands of the Sette that held the Vongola. Yet I would need the clearance. This called for an…opportunity. As if sensing my desire, the Hell Ring on my chest burned cold, and so, I lifted it up to my lips and whispered a prayer, which, as my fatherland had it, was little more than a command coupled with an offering, "_Let me break a Vongola Sky's Seal_."


	20. Chapter 20

Daemon's poking his head into things. A third of this chapter is just Ninth and Basil making circular arguments. I'm starting to suspect the I've accidentally turned not seeking Harmony into a metaphor for asexuality. It's either that or a counterargument to the soulmate trope. I hate my head.  
Seal-breaking checklist:  
1\. A Vongola Sky [X]  
2\. Access to Vongola Records [ ]  
2.1 Vongola Nono's trust [X]  
2.2 A suitable justification for getting clearance [ ]  
3\. Discreet way to reach Young Master [ ]

**Chapter Text**

Opportunity presented itself as an Massimo inviting me to a picnic. But just because I had to interact with him didn't mean that I had to be nice about it. So, I had demanded, to no avail, the freshly plucked hearts of unbaptized babes, tossed in a salad of apple and quince with their tongues and drizzled with the oil of vitriol which was also the spirits of brimstone.

Instead, I was offered a spread of sandwiches. My only consolation was that I was permitted to bring Iruka, given that we were having lunch at the pier. I was highly tempted to hum the Ballad of the Cruel Sister, but alas, even if sir had confirmed that we were secretly at odds with the Ninth, it was best if I did not show any overt desire for potential-heir-murdering.

Conversation was dull. I wasn't inclined to liven it. Iruka had swum off to chase gulls. I entertained myself by counting the bodyguards discreetly maintaining a parameter. One was gone.

Danger. "Signore Massimo." I warned lowly as I breathed Kyoukau into being around me, "There is danger."

Thank whatever forces exist in the world, he took me seriously and moved into an unpracticed defensive crouch behind me. "I trust you-"

I whirled out of range as his longer arms reached for me, indigo eyes-Mist influence-removal or incapacitation? Incapacitation. I stepped backwards. The sea was behind me, and though it was not Kiri's eerie wine-dark waters, I trusted its power. I trusted my ability to navigate it, should it come to pass. Massimo was swift. Too swift for his bulk. An Oinin's eye for anatomy revealed unnatural tension and relaxation in his muscles. I could not rely on past experience of Massimo's movement. Close combat would be folly, but overt Flame use would be suicidal in public. I was unparalleled at genjutsu, but genjutsu was not a tool against meat puppets and for all that it was as easy as breathing for me to call upon chthonic horrors or spin dreams poppy-sweet, that did not matter if I could not catch the one pulling Massimo's strings. He should be reversing chak-Flame and breaking himself out of the Mist's grip but gah, what else can you expect from him?

A spark of Matatabi on salt-withered wood had him falling into the waves, and a hail of bullets prompted me to follow after. Chains clanked out of the foam and despite my competency in aquatic environments, I did not have the leverage to wrest myself free __even the Bloody Mist paid lip service to the laws of physics! __Massimo was drowning and I was duty-bound to keep him alive and un-brain-damaged. Deep breath. What I wouldn't give for Utakata's bubbles.

Ice formed beneath my feet, large planes of it hidden under churned foam. Flotation.

The chains were frozen into the ice, and it was easy to turn fetter into fishing-line. Then I realized that the chains, as illusions made real, couldn't actually be used against their creator in useless-Massimo's body. And Massimo was sinking deeper.

Water pressure was an inconvenience to the untrained. I forgot.

I took another breath, let Flame burn just beneath my skin, reminiscent of how I once cycled chakra. Then, as a cormorant dove for the fish that were the fisherman's fare, I shot through the shallows and swam for someone I really did not want to save.

I would not expend precious air. I would not tip my hand with Mist. I caught onto Massimo's shoulders and let the fire of Matatabi, Isobu's sister the nekomata, burn a single word in the murk. ****OUT****

Laughter rang unearthly in the swirling currents. Chains coiled from nothingness, too many to break, and I flared Flame and Will to no avail.

And not quite from my auditory nerves came a series of squeaks and clicks and whistles. Iruka had taken notice. I emptied my lungs to scream out a warning. He heard and answered. I would not tip my hand for Massimo. But I could be inventive.

Everything would be so much simpler if I wasn't compensating for dead weight. Still, enough complaining. I refused a watery grave, so my Dying Will flared to life on my brow.

* * *

I woke to the beeping of monitors, unbalanced yet not with no cool Matatabi burning-those were down to mere embers. My skin was covered by a different sort of cloth, and the covers over me were not at body-temperature. They were cooler. Rain overuse? I felt the steady orchestral warmth of a yule-log at my right and a flickering novelty-candle's flame on my left.

There was no one else in proximity. I opened my eyes, feigning confusion. "The Vongola owe you a great debt, young Basil."

The nice thing about being hurt was that you were justified in not showing people the respect they would otherwise demand. So, I stared up at the ceiling and asked, "Pardon?"

"Iemitsu has always had a talent for finding gifted in unlikely places." Said the Ninth, warmly, "You proved yourself to be an even more extreme case of that than Oregano and Turmeric. Do you remember what happened?"

"There was an attack." I answered, "Signor Massimo was mentally influenced by a Mist. This one was then assaulted by him, and attempted, with no success, to subdue thy son. This one then followed thy son into the deeps, and sought to preserve both self and him from permanent harm."

"And it worked," He praised, "Despite being an impossibility, it worked. We theorize that you two Harmonized out of a mutual desire to live, and that Massimo's Sky Flames successfully shored up your own Rain Flames, creating a feedback loop which put you into stasis even after we followed your dolphin to your location and brought you up. You remained in the coma until now, when your Flames finally exhausted themselves."

"This one sees." I replied evenly. "Though this one is quite exhausted, elsewise, this one is unscathed."

And Massimo was still dead to the world. Useless semi-civilian.

"An excellent start to your new relationship, Rain Guardian of Massimo do Vongola." Ninth smiled.

"Pardon this one." I said, frowning, "But this one is not."

"You Harmonized." Ninth said, something akin to reverence in his voice, "In a single moment. With no Courting, no Negotiations, simply a moment of aligned Intent. You Chose to Guard, and it was enough."

No. I chose to avoid the complications of letting the Daimyo-equivalent's offspring die. If anyone had a claim on my loyalty in this life, it was Sawada Iemitsu, who had given me whispers and hearth in the age old contract called Apprenticeship, and in return had his will acknowledged and by my power seen done.

I had not been lying when I told Bel that there were three great tie that bound me to this world. What I had not said was that they were three of the four pillars of self as was taught in Kiri. The ore-bond, of parent and child. The forge-bond, of master and apprentice. The sword-bond, of enemies and comrades, all those who would be named equal. The hilt-bond, of Kage and shinobi. This was none of them, and while passing fancy may drive me to action, to this half-civilian child called Massimo, I had no tie and no obligation.

But I was a shinobi, not a samurai. To break a seal, one would need a Sky. Massimo was an option. As was Xanxus and sir. However, of the three, he was both the most expendable and the one with the direct blood connection to Nono, therefore the optimal choice. I was unsure whether to the 666, the touch of foolhardy orange nestled in my Rain-blue was price or payment or both. But It made the ninth trust me. I needed the trust being believed to be emotionally compromised would get me if I was to get into the sealed archives. Being a Guardian meant that I was family, not just Family. I could work with this.

After all, sir had made note of grievance. I would suffer more from enemies than I would ever from allies. So, I was going to play tsundere.

"This one is not Signor Massimo's Guardian." I protested, "It was, at most, a spur of the moment decision. Courtships are about choice, and I do not cleave well to Signor Massimo in personality or methodology."

"You matched through purity of intent." Ninth countered insistently, "And that is rare, impossibly rare."

"Massimo is unsuited to this one's nature!" I protested, with all the clumsiness of a precocious six year old, tempting an old man to declare that he knew better.

"He is the sort to be protected, isn't he?" Ninth said with a smile, "And you are the sort who would rather not have to worry."

"This one would rather not associate with Signor Massimo beyond what is necessary!"

And not-worrying meant Bel, who I trusted to take care of himself and fight alongside. Not a civilian middle child with nothing to prove!

Ninth sighed and massaged his temples, looking a bit nostalgic again, "It wasn't much different for me with Visconti, but we grew on each other in time. You two will learn to fit together as you find your edges, young Basil, so, remember this from an old man who's gone through all that's before you already-compromises must happen. My son is headstrong, feckless, and not quite aware of consequences. You must teach him that, for your relationship to work. And in return, you need to reciprocate with some level of understanding, unless you wish for the bond to break, or worse, slip into Discord."

One freed me from the idiot obligations. The other allowed me to explore interesting new avenues of Flame use. Both sounded tempting.

"And yet Signor Massimo is also at fault." I insisted to the ceiling, "He should take responsibility for his actions as well."

"Good Lord, child, why do you think a Guardian Bond is a unwelcome occurrence, an unhappy accident?"

"I didn't choose it." I said, repeating my prior point.

"But you did." Ninth continued to talk, "Your heart and soul mirrored Massimo's enough that they called out to each other. Do you remember the talk we had when we first met child? I told you about a Sky's call and an Element's ache for Harmony. The acceptance of home. That's what happened-Massimo's Flames gave yours a home."

"But Signor Massimo is-" I cut myself off furiously. "-He is yet to wake."

"Ah." Ninth chuckled, "We can be strong in many more ways than mere Flame. You harmonized for a reason, Basil."

I bit off the beginning of another counterargument.

He laughed, "Well, I'll be off then. I shall give you some privacy when you meet your Sky."

Luckily, I was still staring at the clean white plaster abovehead, so I had no obligation to react.

His footsteps faded. I sat up and disconnected myself from the medical apparatus.

* * *

I found clothes folded on a chair. I took off the hospital gown and put the suit on-sir had presumably been informed and had the appropriate attire delivered.

A whimper-groan. Massimo had awakened.

"This one shall not be thine." I hissed at him, "Thou hast no claim upon this one, no matter what twinning of fire may say."

"But Basil-"

I snarled and shut the door behind me. But I could hear his shouting, "I will be the Sky you deserve Basil! WITH MY DYING WILL!"

Oh __Hashirama__. He only survived the assassination attempt because of me, and was mentally assaulted before that. He was associating me with safety. However, no matter how much it made my future plans easier, I did not want him following me around like a lost duckling.


	21. Chapter 21

"And that concludes the end of this one's report." I took a grateful gulp of water.

"You are certain that only a single Mist numbered among the assassins?" Sir asked.

"This one had paid no attention to the forces attacking the guards." I clarified, "But it is without a doubt that all attacks experienced by Signor Massimo and this one were the work of a single assailant."

Sir nodded. "There aren't many Mists that can manage the simultaneous illusions you described, or charge them to such potency as to be unbroken by Vongola Quality Flame. That narrows down the suspect pool. Get me a list of alibis for every non-allied Mist with a sustained output at Guardian Proxy level and above."

"Yes, sir." I acknowledged, but didn't get up to see to the task. Our conversation was not finished. "About the Guardian Bond."

"I see." Sir said, "Then Basil-kun, will you permit me…?"

"Yes." I allowed.

The delicate fairground cotton-candy strands of whisky-laden Sky that superficially touched my soul came alight.

"There's something." Sir confirmed.

Then Mist was racing down the paths sir's respectfully fragile connection with me had forged. In response, I turned my own power inwards, isolating the lighter crayon-and-cardboard shade of orange that had tried to sink its roots in my soul, touched by sickly indigo that was foreign yet familiar. Then, bolstered by Lal's twisted Mist that sought the Rain it once was, and sir's cobweb-strong offered strength, I cut.

* * *

Annoyingly enough, the backlash forced me into a moment's unconsciousness. By the time I awoke, sir was stoppering a small vial.

"See Basil?" My bipolar shishou grinned, "Everything turned out just fine! Massimo's still sufficiently under influence to justify severing a Guardian Bond for security reasons, we get a sample of our mystery bad guy's Flame, and you get to learn something new!"

"Thou expected this, sir?" I asked, awed. Oh well, my emotions were a bit exaggerated, but if sir wanted to be cheerful, I wasn't going to ruin the mood.

"Yep! You see, Basil-kun, when you live as long as shishou has, you pick up some Instincts! And those Instincts told your shishou to be on guard!"

"And Mammon apologized for his absence in the Ottabio fiasco by giving us that containment device. Basil." Lal greeted, carrying a case little smaller than she was, "You're in luck." She threw me the case. "Open it."

I did. Snug in black foam lay semi-familiar pieces. A disassembled-

"Brügger & Thomet APR 308P sniper rifle." The former COMSUBIN clarified, "A bit less than seven kilograms, so about a quarter of your body weight. Heavier than healthy for a civilian your age, but the specs are worth it. Bolt-action, manually operated, effective firing range of 600 meters, uses a 10-round detachable box magazine, day or night optics. Varia poached our last sniper and I want eyes on high yesterday. You're going to practice with this beauty until you can drop a gull from half a 'carrier. Massimoron harmonized with you when your desire to live overpowered everything else about you, and he'll want to try to get you two into that sort of situation again, so we're going to switch you from midrange to long range."

My poor, poor, faithful boomerang-set-square-thingy, you have served me well.

I patted it sadly, then set off with Lal to the gun range.

* * *

One of the quirks Sir introduced to CEDEF headquarters was the lack of working lights in the archives. The fixtures existed, yes, but they couldn't be turned on, leaving the rooms in complete darkness. Anyone trying to find anything would have to bring their own illumination, and a spot of light amidst the gloom was quite hard to hide. I had no reason to hide-I was present on legitimate business, but the gloaming revealed the light of a single red, glowing, kanji-pupiled eye.

"Kufufufu…" Mukuro chuckled, "I see that I still can not surprise you."

"Thou hast surprised this one with thy foolishness." I countered drily, "Thou wert invited by this one's master. Wilt thou then stop thy posturing and perform thy duties as demanded?"

My fellow reincarnate clicked his fingers, illuminating our surroundings with ghost-fire. He then bowed, and proffered a good-sized box with a flourish. The files on the potential suspects. Mukuro, as a direct combat-type, was presumably here as a consultant of sorts to interpret and translate techniques and power levels-I was (and am) unparalleled in genjutsu of the shinobi kind, which were intangible illusions that cost little energy-Mukuro knew how to use Flame to warp reality and make his lies real. In other words, basically Izanagi, just more conditional and still breakable.

I wasn't fooled by his apparent ease in handling the box, and braced myself for its weight.

Oof.

Relieved of his burden, Mukuro bowed again, switching styles, "Rejoice, oh heir of bloody secrets and tearstained lies, your CEDEF lives up to its reputation."

"This one has been newly taught a word that describes thee well." I returned mildly, "It is 'Chunnibyou'. This one presumes thou art with it familiar."

"Unfortunately, I am." Mukuro glared, "M.M. has called me that already."

"M.M.?" I asked. One of the informants Mukuro was in charge of managing. A child of France's Apollinaris assassin-musician dynasty and fascinated with Mukuro. Or maybe with his access nearly unlimited amounts of exorbitantly expensive chocolate. But I wasn't going to reveal how much I knew.

Mukuro launched into a tirade on his informant's lack of morals, abrasive personality, and habit of stealing his chocolate that managed to include very little actionable intelligence as we walked into a conveniently empty office.

I set the collection of files down with a intimidating thump, then fell down after it. "Set thyself where thou willst, if so thou pleases, Mukuro, or stand." I waved a hand cheerfully, "This one shall begin."

"Abbasica Family. Nicomede Scarsi. Creates potholes from nothing then closes them. Largest recorded range is 47 square meters."

"Possible." Mukuro answered lazily, "An illusion of absence is harder than an illusion of a created object. Something to do with-"

The door opened again, and he was preoccupied with deflecting a rain of sharp blades.

"Bel!" I leapt up to embrace my prince, which had the added benefit of stopping his assault on my consultant.

"Page!" Bel grinned, wrapping one arm around me and tossing a wicker basket at Mukuro with the other, "Ushishishi, the Prince comes to answer your wishes! Freshly plucked hearts, well grilled and seasoned; a salad of apple with quince vinegar; spicy duck tongues! For the peasant, should he grovel, a selection of chocolate-coated fruit. Yet why are you subtly sad?"

"Fewer, henceforth, our missions together shall be." I sighed in answer.

"Oh? What has the Page chosen to be occupied with? Shishishi, where goes the Page that is believed to be beyond the Prince's ability to follow?"

"Windows and Winds." I replied, "Watching and Waiting."

"Sniping?" Bel leaned forward, examining my unobscured eye for signs of greasepaint, "The Page is learning to kill peasants without leaving castles?"

"Not without leaving castles!" I protested.

But Bel was falling backwards, giggling. "Ushishishi, the Page shouldn't worry! If the Page is going to be a sniper, then the Prince will be the Page's spotter!"

I frowned, looking pointedly at his eyes (or lack thereof).

Mukuro snorted, "Apprentice of the Young Lion, you are being a hypocrite-unless you lack depth perception and are merely very good at pretending?"

"Clearly not." Suddenly there was a grinning Bel nose to nose with me. "A secret." He laughed, and brushed back his bangs.

I caught my breath. Bel's eyes were beautiful, golden lashes framing gleaming silver streaked with hair-thin lines of dark gray radiating from inky-dark pupils, as if a night with moon and velvety dark sky reversed. "Silver eyes that see the wind, shishishishi."

"So civilians are correct on occasion, my Prince? This one knew not that thou read unclassical fiction."

"If the right honorable prince will use the brain his heritage might have not robbed him of," Mukuro interrupted with good humor, "Then he will realize that the cyclops of our number has all but admitted to reading the books as well. Now that you two are done with your sharing of personal space, shall we return to matters at hand?"

He caught Bel's knives with the picnic basket, just as Bel stuck out his tongue and insulted, "The peasant just wants to taste the Prince's Royal Delicacies!"

So us three nightmare prodigies were gathered and settled back into a comfortable dynamic. Bel cared even less for Massimo than I did, Mukuro had no attachment to the Vongola, only to individuals, and while I numbered among those, none of the ruling line did. They would not betray my secrets to the Ninth. "This one believes that the one who assaulted this one belongs not to our enemies, nor to our allies." I chanced, "Rather, this one believes that they were powerful enough to be our own, and perchance appearing long dead."

"Really?" Mukuro frowned, eye absentmindedly flickering to the one of the Naraka Path and pushing a touch of Flame at me. "Did the attack really feel like this, instead of what your own Mists' illusions manifest?"

"Definitely." I confirmed.

"Shishishi. So that is why the Page needs the peasant." Bel grinned and rolled onto his back, spreading lacing his fingers behind his head. "To explain how that was identified. But why does the Page care so much?"

"A pretext. This one needs to go into the Family Archives." I shrugged, "To claim the power felt too great to not belong to the Vongola, then use it as an excuse to access classified records."

Bel rolled his way over to the basket of food. "Ushishishi, then the Prince shall have the King plant the idea in Moron-peasant's head."

"This one thanks thee, my prince." I smiled gratefully. "And thou, Mukuro? Wilt thou give thy testimony?"

Mukuro smirked, "For a favor."

"Name it."

"Two other rescues. Ken. Chikusa. I would like to have them transferred where I can keep an eye on them. Constantly."

Hostages. But for him. So Mukuro had found his own minions-how wonderful.

"This one shall see it done." I promised.

* * *

OMAKE

* * *

I rubbed my eyes, trying to press away the weariness. "The Fabbri Mist? Snipe Rossi? Her most powerful known technique is the mass illusion "Piper's pipes". Our intelligence notes that her record for ensnaring victims is forty-six in close proximity, but at least a fifth broke free survived when she sent them into gunfire. Could she have ensnared Massimo?"

Crunch. "Nope." Mukuro bit down on a piece of chocolate-covered banana, "You need far more power to break a Vongola Sky. I tried just throwing Mist at Massimo once, but even if his resistance was pitiful, it was still Vongola, so it took more than I'd like. Rossi can't do that while throwing in Real Illusion chains, especially if they aren't her speciality."

He snorted, "Given that even you can't cast a Real Illusion reliably, she won't even be capable of producing them. Scratch her off the list. Or don't. Dead Famiglias will only help me sleep more soundly at night."

"The Prince agrees!" Bel said cheerfully, "The Prince expects fun shall be had when slaughtering them all!"

"You would have fun with murder no matter the circumstance." I snorted, "Should Mukuro lead, we would ethnocide the Underworld, and leave only our own alive. Should Bel lead, the Wild Hunt would ride. Lest you have forgotten, we are attempting to assemble a list or lack of potential suspects. This one needs an excuse to enter the sealed archives, and you agreed to help."


	22. Chapter 22

A cluster of holes formed a neat triangle in the head of the cutout half a kilometer away, matching its counterpart in the chest area. One of the annoying things about bullets: you couldn't fake a death just by standing a step farther away from your target or putting a hint less force into a throw. Still, lethal hits were easy. Nonlethal ones on the other hand…

The last four bullets of my magazine found their homes in the limbs of the target. I took care not to have them hit any arteries.

A tap on my shoulder.

Turmeric.

"Meeting, now."

I disassembled the rifle, returned it to the quartermaster's with a polite nod at the fastidiously-cleaning-a-pistol Lemongrass as we headed upstairs.

* * *

The Guardians' floor was equipped with a few communal rooms. The kitchen-dining room combination where we had our meals was one. Another, cozier, better secured room where we relaxed during downtime and had group briefings.

Oregano began, "Emergency report has that Federico's Storm just shot him in the head. Claims to not remember anything from the morning onwards, Croquant's verified that his head's been tampered with. We analyzed the Mist residue. It's a match with the sample we took from Basil last week. Ninth's called a Family meeting in an hour. He's not turning the other cheek any longer. It's almost certain that tomorrow, we will be at war."

Four owls, one for each of us, flew into our laps and unfolded into short documents.

"Internal agents report that the general opinion is positive and there shall be no organized dissent against the action. Allied Families have received the intelligence from their embedded informants and are mobilizing in anticipation. There's a list of abnormal reactions to the news in the files, our analysts are working on getting something from it."

Turmeric frowned at two lines at the bottom of his paper. "Xanxus has willingly reestablished relations with the main family."

"Yes." Sir grinned, "The Family's together again! Xanxus and Timmy decided that they could put aside their differences, because they both want to see the killer killed!"

"CEDEF has an agent in place by Federico." I said, recalling words once read, "This could have been stopped, but it wasn't. A common enemy. This one asks whether it was intentional."

"Me?" Sir asked, a hapless grin dropping onto his face before he dropped into the Young Lion's register and it evaporated. "A valid guess, but no. The attack slipped through our defenses as well."

"Ninth won't be thinking clearly." Turmeric turned to me, "You're taking advantage of this situation."

It was a statement, not a question. "This one has made arrangements." I answered.

Lal crossed her arms, "Anything we need to watch out for?"

"Little." I winced, "But this one is uncertain, given the multitude of involved parties."

"As expected." The Young Lion allowed. "If that is all?"

A round of confirmation.

"Then dress for war."

* * *

CEDEF were the last to arrive, mostly because we, unlike the Varia, were stuck in the middle of the city and had to deal with rush hour traffic. Since the Ninth Generation resided in the mansion and weren't in the position to be observed and Varia only had two modes-total idiots and absolute terrifying, with the latter being the only one known to to the public, (and because sir was a peacock, to put it lightly), it fell to the External Advisory to manipulate Vongola's public image.

As a genjutsu mistress, I could appreciate pageantry.

Lal was Arcobaleno, unbeholden to the Family, tied to the CEDEF because of her own desires. She would not change for a mere Family, even if it was the greatest, so she remained in her cape and goggles.

The rest of us were arrayed all in sharp black suits of matching cuts-the CEDEF did not quite care for differentiating soldiers from soldiers. I had switched my brightly-colored tee for a matching white dress shirt, and suppressed my instincts enough to willingly don a tie. Blue for me, purple for Oregano, red for Turmeric, orange for sir. The ties were kept in place by simple pins in the shape of "CEDEF". Plain silvery-gray steel for all of us save for Turmeric, whose pin was the gold of the Sun.

We were seven-no, six in five, and our formation was decidedly lopsided, with an empty space at sir's right, for his lost Guardian and wife (poor Lemongrass was back in the armory). While reminding the Ninth that he had not forgotten the violations was well and good, the only reason sir managed to get away with it on the eve of war was because a) no one else knew; b) sir had been doing so for most of the year now and it'd be more suspicious for him to stop; c)sir was notorious for his eccentricities. Mostly the latter.

Four clusters of people awaited us in the cozy opulence that was Ninth's preferred aesthetic. Vongola Timoteo, grief carved onto every line of his aged features, flanked by somber-suited men.

Enrico, to his right, sharp suited and expression empty, surrounded by grave-faced Guardians. Massimo, shell-shocked, face tear-stained, flanked by his Storm and Lightning. Xanxus, lounging half-heartedly on a couch, half-empty bottle at his side indicating that the tumbler in his hand was not his first, his Guardians sprawled about him in various states of casual disrespect. Of course. Just because the prodigal son was willing to reconcile out of hate, didn't mean that his Guardians shared his grief.

We three apprentices took a knee, as protocol dictated. Lal remained standing. Sir kissed Don Vongola's ring.

We rose, and headed to our seats.

"I did not wish for bloodshed." Don Vongola began, "I did not wish for war. I did not wish for another tally on Vongola's debt of death. So I bit my tongue. I turned the other cheek. I accepted. I forgave. But my deliberation has been taken for weakness. At nine past three in the afternoon this day, Federico was shot and killed by the same Mist that attacked Massimo, this time possessing Federico's own Guardian. No more. If it is war they insist on, then war they shall have."

There was an undercurrent of a snarl in his yule-fire steady tone, and the shadow of wrath in the calm of his face, cast by eyes glowing ember-orange. I could see, in that instant, why none had doubted his claims of Xanxus' parentage, why no one doubted it, even now. The same force that drove him to commit atrocity upon my master's kin now directed him against those who would harm the Vongola. Here was a Kage.

Like hounds unhooded, the Varia snapped to bloodthirsty attention, their boss first among them to bare his teeth in vicious satisfaction. Federico's eyes blazed with barely-restrained rage, and even Massimo showed a touch of the vividness of hate.

"War." Growled the Varia's Wrath Sky.

"War." The Young Lion agreed.

"War." Three Settes of the three heads of the Vongola echoed.

"War." The two heirs of the Family repeated.

Heat swelled. Harmony intersected and resonated and amplified until seven-and-twenty disparate parts, in the echo chamber of five Skies united in purpose, aligned perfectly.

"War." Said seven-and-twenty voices, and so it was.

* * *

Awkward.

Dramatic declarations were all well and good, but no one ever knows how to act afterwards.

I waited for a count of ten, then spoke, "CEDEF has made headway in identifying the unknown Mist. This one has conducted a thorough evaluation of all known Mists in CEDEF records, and after cross-referencing alibis at the time of Massimo's attempted assassination. There have been no plausible suspects."

Enrico tapped his chin. "Given that Federico's killer avoided both the Family's defenses and the External Consultancy's, he almost definitely has insider information."

Turmeric coughed, "That is true. As expected, we kept the possibility to ourselves, but Lal Mirch has been heading our own internal investigation."

"The results of which are as expected for soldiers I trained." Lal cut in, "No traitors, the informants we allowed in haven't built their networks beyond acceptable levels, and only the Flame-inactive lower ranks have triggers embedded into them. The leak was not from our side."

"The Main Family is unaware of the Consultancy's secret guards." Ninth countered, "Therefore, if we assume the Mist was working alone, then the most expedient conclusion would be that it was CEDEF that was compromised."

Oregano hid her glare behind the light reflection of her glasses, "Lal Mirch's training-"

"-What if it wasn't someone in our records?" Massimo interrupted, bouncing on his seat, which was a bit horrifying to watch, given his bulk. The poor legs of the antique chair looked like they were going to shatter under the assault, while the cushion had apparently given up the fight and surrendered to its new shape.

He paused in response to our glaring. Lal, in particular, seemed to emit a sense of _shut up, the grownups are talking_. Admirably enough, he soldiered on, "Well, it's like a movie, isn't it? Everyone is looking for someone who's alive, but maybe it's actually someone who's faked his death."

"That would assume that we're incapable of confirming deaths." Sir winced, "Good idea, hotshot, but don't imply that unless you want to take on the M.E. department."

"Posthumous management wasn't established until Ottava gave the order to keep Nazi trash from discovering Flames."

"Since when were you a treasure trove of Vongola trivia, Xanxus?" Asked the man at Enrico's left-his Sun.

"Since I decided to take the fucking Varia, trash." Xanxus snapped back, "Just because trash like you don't pay attention to what they're doing, doesn't mean I do the same. M.E. and Varia started as two subdivisions of CEDEF that Ottava created to deal with Nazi trash who turned Flame-active, then we became independent while the fuckers stayed with the CEDEF trash. I learnt my fucking history."

"Old man Sage said that his old boss was a Mist." Sir stroked his atrocious facial hair, "He never told me any scary stories about that guy's death though."

"CEDEF records before 1926 were destroyed as a decoy when Mori was trying to eradicate the Mafia." I grumbled sourly, "Ottava's Ring Trials were in '24, and her succession was fast afterwards, forcing Seventh to step down. There existed speculation after, of the nature of Seventh's demise, with many believing that given Daniela's judgement, he was ordered killed. Sadly, due to the loss of our files, all we may do is listen to foggy recollections from a mind-." I cut myself off and glared at the ground, because one does not criticize one's direct military superior in the open. However, _hint, hint, Massimoron_.

Massimo clapped his hand, "I know! Dad! The Dons' and Guardians' journals! They're intact, aren't they? We can check them!"

Turmeric coughed, "By Alaude's order, we can not allow external interference into an internal affairs investigation. Apologies, Don Vongola, we are aware that you are the opposite of Secondo, but to quote our founder, regarding participation in the investigation, he bolded the words '**especially not the Don**'."

Massimo frowned, "Just let CEDEF do it then."

"TRASH!" Xanxus snarled, "Use your fucking head for once! CEDEF stands for the fucking_ Consulenza Esterna Della Famiglia_, you brainless twit. _Esterna_. Do you know what that means? _Outside the fucking family_. That means the trash don't look into the fucking private records because those are _inside_ the family!"

"Brat!" Lal snarled back, "Just because you band of undisciplined killers refuse to read the documents of founding doesn't mean we have to respect your delusions about jurisdiction! CEDEF's motherfucking job description is to head the Main Family's internal affairs investigations!"

"The main suspect comes from your division in the first place!" Leviathan broke in. He got hit in the head by Squalo.

Excellent. The more back and forth there was, the more Ninth's opinions were altered to suit us. Xanxus was more tied to CEDEF than Massimo. He was also an unproved attempted usurper. Which meant Ninth would take his opposition with a grain of salt. Which meant Ninth would be inclined to believe the opposite of what he was suggesting-after all, CEDEF defending its authority was perfectly expected, and therefore unsuspicious. Xanxus attacking it? Clearly an indication of ulterior motives. Reverse psychology at its most useful.

"ENOUGH!" Ninth thundered, "Xanxus, Lal Mirch, I understand that the External Consultancy and the Varia have a traditional rivalry. However, that is no reason to turn it into a faultline in the Vongola. As dictated by precedent, CEDEF will be allowed access to the classified records, under supervision."

Now, cue the spoilt but trustworthy son.

"Let it be Basil then, father!" Massimo wheedled, "He's my Guardian, so he's super trustworthy, right? I can supervise, we can bond, and it'll be a win-win!"

"This one is not thy Guardian!" I immediately retorted, just to show my displeasure and therefore my neutrality in this matter.

"Acceptable." Ninth agreed.

"This one disapproves on principle of being singled out, therefore this one begs thee to reconsider! This one is but five and one, young and inexperienced despite this one's ability, and thus truly unable to bear the burden of so momentous a task!" I protested, because I was tsundere and cute.

"Basil." Sir said, keeping the peace and siding with the Ninth and his family, "The journals are a secret section of the library."

I froze mid-breath, then squeaked, "A library? Thou deceivest not this one? Speakst thou truly of selections of texts, free for this one's perusal, not a mere collection of two or three books?"

"Not free for your perusal, young Basil." Ninth chuckled, "But you may certainly spend an extra hour or two reading, once you have found what you need."

I grinned brilliantly. It was good to be a child.

I suspected Bel winked at me.


	23. Chapter 23

I heard a creak. With one hand, I hid the offending journal underneath the one I was expected to use. With my other hand, I readied the sign bearing the phrase "SILENCE IN THE LIBRARY".

"B-"

Up went the sign.

"sorry!" He whispered, "don't worry though, it's not time yet. you still have an hour left, I'm just here to give you some snacks."

I flipped the sign, "NO FOOD OR DRINK IN THE LIBRARY".

"whoops… …I'll just leave now."

Good riddance.

I turned back to the document.

__Spada is a curious associate. As is tradition, after I received Vongola's Sin, he took back CEDEF's Ring halves and replaced old man Salomone, thus confirming himself as the my CEDEF head. Unlike father and Salmone, who were good friends even before father was confirmed as heir, we have barely made each other's acquaintances at this point, and Spada seems unwilling to make further effort. I feel that such is doubly exacerbated by a strange variance of clashing personalities, with Spada being quite queerly archaic, and I favoring the modern approaches to business. Yet we are agreed in the value of efficiency: my Flames are weaker than the norm, and Spada is an extraordinarily strong Mist to compensate, so we have begun a reversal of the normal Family-Consultancy relationship, with Spada acting with violence and I focusing on the less than openly bloody battlefields, as to make use of our strengths and weaknesses as we expand the Vongola, for expand it we shall, our campaigns swift and brutal, taking advantage of my being underestimated to strike while our enemies are unprepared.__

* * *

I found a sketched portrait of our Seventh. I made note, but given that Seventh was a Mist, its usefulness was less direct than one would expect-but not useless. Mists were human, and their hearts were human also. Even if Seventh was using a false face, his own self-image would betray him, creating consistencies throughout his manifold appearances. Of course, that was only when the illusionist in question had an excess of hubris. The ones who were aware of their shortcomings usually paid enough attention to their appearances to overcome subconscious shortcomings. Luckily, seventh, being a powerful Mist, was not immune to arrogance.

__My firstborn is a bouncing baby boy! Spada, constipated bastard that he is, refused to come to the christening but left a set of lovingly cared for Primo-era toy soldiers as a present to baby Flavio, then had three bosses of enemy famiglias be found belly up in the harbor-dead and bloated, of course. He is playing up his likeness to Daemon Spade excessively.__

Spade? Ugh, this case was becoming far too complex. I reminded myself to check on Mukuro if the Decimo-Primo transmigration ridiculousness was involved.

* * *

An abundance of sons, while a bountiful blessing, burdens one greatly with the matter of Inheritance. While the Vongola has our Ring Trials, in which any Sky of Giotto's blood with a complete Sette may challenge another for the position of Heir, it is not possible for other Families, who, having neither the weight to negotiate with the Cervello, nor the split and blood-locked Rings from our forefathers, to utilize the same rites and mechanisms. Yet though other Families can not make use of the solution, they are not immune to the problem. I have devised a method by which they may secure Succession as well. A truly wonderful means, that although reversible when met with such a necessity, will not be easily altered by unlawful hands. I have set down the way by which a Sky must manipulate their Flame, so as to create a barrier, a boundary, and a bind, and so allow the young to grow up innocent of the burning powers of the world.

I had found my lead in Quinto's records.

* * *

__Daniela's born! My beloved Rebecca named our daughter after her brother Daniel, but it is my opinion that children should not be named for anyone. Their burdens are great enough without taking on those of their forbears, though Daniela seems quite up to the task, bawling lustily the moment she emerged into the world-nightmare child. I fear for whoever she marries.__

Ottava? Well, luckily for all involved, she did not bother to marry.

* * *

__Spada was late to the christening, nearly pulled a ____Sleeping Beauty____. I swear, that man is getting worse. Gifts: Standard dead enemies in the harbor-poor dock workers, I'm reducing their protection fee; another heirloom from who knows where; the worst blessing in history: "you will not die of weakness".__

The two Settimos' relationship was clearly improving, but friendship with the Seventh should not have been motivation for attacking the present-day Vongola.

* * *

__Spada, silly man. I heard from Cilantro, formerly Gladius that he managed to misuse the phrase "no comments from the peanut gallery" and say "no comments from the spice cabinet" instead. Spada has turned the whole thing into a lesson, Cilantro gloomily informs me, and now he is a spice, not a weapon.__

Ah, yes, that old bit of history.

* * *

To Seal Flame is a difficult matter. Flame, like all flames, burn. In time, with sufficient application of heat, all things will be consumed. To smother Flame is no small matter either, for the smothering of Flame is the smothering of life. There is no way to succeed without killing the bearer of the Flame. Instead, Sealing redirects Flame, turns it inwards and contains it, as one banks a fire until all that remain are coals. To this purpose, I have made use of Primo's Zero Point technique, but with a peculiar inversion, so that instead of solid, physical ice, the effect is a spiritual freeze that absorbs the Sealed individual's Flame to maintain itself in a self-sustaining system.

Zero Point. Reversal of Flame. To use it, one must be able to enter the Dying Will Mode, as foolish as the name may sound. Yet the Sealing demanded a Sky. I would have to replicate the steps, from Zero Point to Sealing, using my own bluebell flames. In secret, at most with my teacher's aid. My nature, shaped by the burdens I had taken from Kage and Kiri and country, held my focus in reserve, for the Young Master's condition would not worsen in the year or so in which we would be conducting a war, and so, I made note carefully, whispered the secrets I had learned to Iruka, then calibrated my rifle and spun my lies, and, for now, brought force and fury to bear against those that my people battled.

* * *

__The wind is blowing against us. The War to end all wars seems to have failed in its purpose, and Europe will soon be burnt and blackened by gunfire and gasoline. I see trouble writ in our futures, but Vongola is strong. We shall weather the storm. I have ordered Spada to begin establishing safehouses and weapons caches, but I am unsure if it is enough. Spada wants us to act more overtly, with the intent of interfering in politics to prevent the Fascists from taking power, even if that walks the line the Vindice have drawn between Flames and Government. I will not countenance that. The government is in ignorance of Flames-we have an advantage. The Vindice are our own enforcers. The less survivable threat is the latter. My Sword is furious at my decision, but it is non-negotiable.__

The beginnings of a schism. I winced (a odd reversion to my childhood, back when I had not been trained to school my face at all times) as my shift in position put pressure on my sprained ankle. Too many bullets meant one would hit eventually, but I had chosen to throw myself to the ground, suffer far too many friction burns, and twist my left ankle to boot. I had then forced myself to run, using Mist and Rain in conjunction to keep the wound from hindering me.

I would need to return to the page sometime in the future. Also, "my Sword"? What was it with Family heads and CEDEF heads and the pet names (see sir, now somewhat reconciled with Ninth, and Ninth's affectionate "my Lion").

I began to scratch out another report to my liege and his own lord. My penmanship with my left hand was less than desirable, so I used a looser hand.

* * *

The process is thusly. First, one must practice creating the Seal. Reverse Flames so as to create Zero Point Ice, then hold the reversal within conventional Flame. Then, Harmonize with the intended, and direct the subject's Flame to form the same composition, inverted so as to be purely spiritual.

One may find it helpful to use these visualizations: first, a whirlpool whirling in the sea; then, its reversal. With these two visualizations, one should successfully create a core of reversed yet soft Flames that meld into soft-Flame exterior. The sea one envisions should meld into a foreign lake, and then the whirlpool should bring the lake's currents into its rotation.

I had it. A viable thread to follow as well. Waters great and vast, as are were are those of my homeland, as much the province of Rain as Sky, the lock that I must pick or to which I must fashion a key.

Ow. My poor dislocated shoulder.

* * *

__I fear. Papa is gone, taken by the Fascists. Flavio is gone too. He came when they caught me and told him to exchange himself for me. They weren't going to let me go unless I was collared and leashed and muzzled. Spada rescued me and gave me the CEDEF half-rings. We are in one of the safehouses Papa ordered created. I have only three Guardians, and one of them must rule her own Family.__

Here the handwriting changed, steadying, and became both bolder, somewhat squared yet sharp-angled.

__In two days, I will challenge my ____dear traitor cousin____ in the Ring Trials. Tiberia offered to have her own Guardians join us for the ones I do not have along with her acting as my Storm, but I will deal with my ____sweet cousin____ and those supporting him with my own, or else on my own. Perhaps one or two of them will understand the circumstances and bow. I will prove myself Donna.__

Again, a shift. Each word was now set down deliberately, as if full of hesitance.

__Spada has been a presence in my life for as long as I could remember. Yet never have I ever conceived that he would support me over my male kin. He is loyal to the Vongola, or rather, is image of the Vongola. He is a known quantity, but loyal only to a degree. He chose me because I fit his purposes. Because his image of me was that of a Donna he would follow. Yet I am certain that I will not always be that Donna.__

__It will too unstable for CEDEF to change in leadership at this point. I will keep my father's Sword. For now.__

__This, I think, will be the last time I allow myself to slump in exhaustion. War is coming-no. It has come. I will take command of my father's people with Flame and Will, and bring us through this.__

Ottava was an inspiration. Spada was CEDEF head for sometime after her ascension. This was news. And it went against tradition. Daniela suspected him, was already examining his neuroses as Settimo Fabio did not.

Another report, but for sir's eyes only. This cut to the core of the matter. I did not trust the Family not to be compromised, but sir was safe.

* * *

__I have found Sage to be an acceptable substitute. Spada will die at the end of the war. All that remains is whether he will breath afterwards. I am still undecided. But he will not stand for peace. Any world worth living in will have to be without him in it.__

I sucked in a breath, ignoring tender ribs. The assassination order should be found soon, if it ever left a paper trail.

* * *

__Spada is dead. I have given orders for his burial as a loyal soldier of the Vongola, with the honors afforded to my own blood, for his service. Perhaps I may now think of him as my dangerous, but caring uncle. However, I can not help but feel as if I should have his corpse decapitated, a stake driven through his heart, and a cross put upon his lips. Sealing the coffin with silver would not be amiss either.__

Dracula, of all things? No peach wood? (Zabuza had been given the name Momochi as a bit of irony, given that he had proven himself a demon)

* * *

__My Mist reports strange things with his Ring. Queer dreams and dark impulses. I will have Sage take the CEDEF halves tomorrow. Yet the portrait of Spade in the halls of the Mansion seems to smile at me in passing. Perhaps Spada was just that, our bloodiest ghost come in our darkest hour as a demon to stalk our enemies. Or perhaps I am being a superstitious fool. If he is truly dead, I do not regret his death. If not… Well, Luce tells me that Sage's chosen apprentice will be a Vongola Sky, come from Giotto's Line in Japan with Intuition stronger even than mine. Having found his way into the heart of the cosa nostra on hearsay and rumor, he will have proven himself powerful in other ways as well. I have taken every precaution I may before my passing, but Spada should not be aware of my suspicions, lest he take precautions against our defenses. Therefore, I shall entrust the solution to Spada, or perhaps Spade, should he still live, to the External Consultancy.__

I closed the embroidered journal with a heavy sigh.

There was my answer.

"Nufufufu… So someone found out anyway."

Sir?

No. His smile was too sinister. His posture too predatory. Sir's relaxed playfulness was boisterous and wholesome cheer. This was a cat, playing with a mouse. But I was no mouse.

I carefully put the journals into their strongbox, then stepped away from the table and chair.

"This one has the honor of addressing Spada, who is in actuality Daemon Spade, this one supposes?"

* * *

**A few things:**  
**My own CEDEF HC:**  
**1\. The new head steps up immediately after the new Don, because the old head was involved in choosing the Don. The old head may still work in the CEDEF, but they will no longer be in command. This is to reduce the odds of the CEDEF head influencing the Don unreasonably.**

**2\. As we never understand how the rings go from being completed to separated again, I HC that with each new CEDEF head, they take the Half-Rings back when the new Don ascends. Poor Basil, the Rings get unsealed and fused together, so that piece of ceremony must be discarded.**

**Now, on Settimo (Fabio). He has the weakest Flames but the strongest (and most mundane/practical) weapons. I have interpreted it to mean that his personality is rather on the pragmatic and secular side. So he never entertains the possibility that Spada is Daemon, even if his name is literally a letter changed from Spade (On the other hand, Spada means Sword, and is a legitimate name, as far as the Rainbow Mafia is concerned), but he works very well with Spada.**  
**Additional angst: All the antiques Daemon gave Fabio's children were from his own time. He saw them as the children he and Elena never got to have.**

**Daemon is most powerful when the Mist Ring is completed and worn. Fabio wore the Sky Ring to bolster his weak Flames, so his Guardians followed suit. They only stopped right before WWII, when he realized his successor would step up soon. Daniela did the right thing when she split the Rings. It neutralized Daemon until, well, now.**

**Daemon is very proud of Daniela for giving the order to kill Spada, even if he is a bit miffed by it. Her ruthlessness proves to him that she is, indeed, worthy to be Donna. Sadly, it also kept him at bay until present.**

**And yes, Daemon got summoned right before he kills the Simone family. So no avenging Simone, yay! (I won't deny that this is because I don't feel like wrapping my head around all the Earth Flame stuff and incorporating Earth Flame lore.) Just imagine that they're living their lives peacefully, away from all the Vongola craziness.**

* * *

**Now, because there's a special kind of hell for authors who leave their readers cliffhangers as Xmas presents, check out a holiday card on the AO3 version of my fic!**  
**B&B assassinating the mysterious reverse thief and stalker known as Santa Claus, who breaks into houses and leaves suspicious packages, demands protection money in the form of milk and cookies, and surveils underage individuals all year round.**

**HAPPY HOLIDAYS!**


	24. Chapter 24

I was not stupid. My default Kyoukau was already drifting down, and now I breathed out the Mist in my lungs in the shape of Kirigakure's signature jutsu. I kept the posture just shy of deferential, the careful balance of loose limbs and lowered chin and uplifted gaze that left one ready to move at a moment's notice.

Daemon Spade's face fell into a frown, "Inconvenient timing, as expected of Alaude's lot. It would have been so much easier if you had had the decency to wait an hour or two."

I waited politely.

He chuckled, "Nufufufu. I am, indeed Daemon Spade, Mist of Primo, Mist of Secondo, CEDEF head of Settimo and Ottava. Congratulations, little spy."

Alright. If he was going to gloat like that, then Daemon Spade wasn't going to kill me, and I was capable of defending myself against any genjutsu he could try. I might as well just let him get his ridiculousness out of his system. "This one is an agent." I corrected smartly, "An employee of the __Consulenza Esterna Della Famiglia, __tasked with investigating the attempted assassinations of Enrico and Massimo of the Vongola, the assassination of Federico of the Vongola. And thou art no human creature." I added as an afterthought. Kyoukau was a three-dimensional awareness of the world, and I could feel that he did not breathe.

He stepped closer. I stepped back. He pressed closer, and I continued to step back until I was pressed against brick and mortar. Trite.

…Really, that can't be natural. Bel's smile pretty much pushes the limits of human ability, and Daemon Spade's was even wider. And yep, the corners of his mouth now split red and wet, dripping blood from a Glasgow grin. He laughed, "So I am not. What, little heir, gives you the impression that you can obstruct me?"

"Thy Flames have been identified as the ones that burned at the scenes of the crime, and they were the flames that touched the mind of this one before thee. Alone among those within this world, thou art possessed of such capabilities even as thou art not possessed of an alibi. Each attempt made to harm the blood of the Vongola has its reflection in antiquity, in the deeds of thine. Denieth thou this?" I was being embarrassingly obtuse. Why did I decide to interpret it as a question of whether or not I had proof?

"My, someone has been doing his research. However," He tilted his head, finger on chin in mock contemplation, "How about…No. I orchestrated the attacks on the sorry excuses for Vongola blood, then took matters in my own hands to rid the Family of that sorry excuse for an heir. As to whether or not you can obstruct me, little boy… The answer is, once again, no."

__"This one begs clarification."__ I almost said, but it was not my place to be a supplicant-a queer use of the phrase, to claim that a place is above, instead of beneath, but such is the nature of a place-between those above and those below, kept by choice, changed by will. I stepped away from the wall-towards Spade. Schooled my features, and asked, "By what right?"

It was, as I expected, the correct and the worst thing I could do, for he was sent into a fit of rage at being questioned so. He was one who had cheated death, and like the other men I knew who had denied old Shinigami his due, he had succeeded because of two things. The first, a purpose, immovable and absolute, anchoring him to reality. The second, a will, adamantine as only a mortal's is, chaining self to that anchor. Add a touch of supernatural power, and a self may remain even when flesh should crumble. The price of remaining in the world was that one became…fixed. Trappings were worn away with time, until only the core of identity remained. Assailing it would be…inflammatory, to say the least.

And I had.

* * *

Having not taken deliberate care to think in a certain manner, my thoughts had taken on a detached, dispassionate bent. Thus was I kept on my feet when the full force of Spade's attention turned onto me. Killing Intent, unrefined, but all the more potent in its rawness, slammed down upon me like the crash of a wave, and I, in response, was the permeable intangibility of mist over waves, unaffected by tide or tsunami.

"Vongola is weak!" He hissed, whirling on his heel and pacing to-and-fro. A Danzo-type, how utterly insipid. "A pacifist boss who would rather turn the other cheek, last in degenerating line rotted at the root, unwilling to defend even his closest kin. Spoiled, arrogant __self-righteous __heirs who know not loss and lack the Will to __fight__ for what is theirs. And the best of the lot!" He laughed, fey and mocking, "The best is Giotto's bumbling get, holding Alaude's useless legacy yet refusing to __cut out__ the rot at Vongola's core!"

Bumbling. Yes. The boss of Giotto's Cloud's agency, that employed, by his design, more active Misty personalities than the any three other Famiglias put together, and as a result, was mostly impregnable to outside influence-the influence we didn't want, anyway, was a jester, and no more than that. Truly, a terrible CEDEF boss. Wouldn't even be mind-controlled.

"Vongola must be strong!" He ranted wildly, all the fury of a __wronged spirit, ____冤魂__ now raging for such wrongs, "It must be strong enough to protect what is theirs and __crush__ any who dare touch them!"

And cue a Danzo-type monologue. At least the Sandaime had the decency to be moderate. It gave me the time I needed to stretch out my senses and gather my power in preparation for battle.

"I will make it strong!" Daemon snarled, "I tethered myself to the living world and committed travesty upon perversion to remain here onto this day, only to watch over the Vongola! It was my choice of Daniela that let the Vongola survive Mussolini when another would have led us to destruction! And the Vongola still hasn't learned! It has grown fat and indolent on peace, forgotten the blood that builds it. But I," he seethed, gesticulating wildly, "I will not let the Vongola fall. If it has become complacent, then I shall set fire to the Underworld, and let the flames of war burn away-"

He didn't get to finish. I was slamming a hand into the ground, ripples of Matatabi spreading out from the impact point-the theatrics were unnecessary, but a cardinal rule of illusion-belief dictates reality, and action influences belief.

A shimmering dome of blue closed over our heads-mine, to be precise.

* * *

.

seal

****.********

* * *

Surprise shocked the spirit into thoughtful contemplation. Good-not good? Less irrational behavior-more predictable-less likely to be tricked/blinded. Calmer-no emotion-induced spikes in power-better scheming.

Spade tried to touch the edge. But no matter how he walked, he was trapped, as I was, in the center of the kekkai. "Fascinating." He admitted, "I could not have escaped." He frowned, examining the space in front of him, "But how?"

Now, here was a conundrum. The more power I poured into Kyoukau, the more I could sap his strength, but on the other hand, Kyoukau is terribly inefficient, as area-of-effect jutsu usually are, and the stronger it was, the less Kyoukau it remained, until its cardinal virtue-undetectability, was lost.

A wisp of twisted indigo-foreign flame-new-found flared from Daemon's fingertips, burning through the dappled, water-filtered light made from a memory of my fatherland. "Fascinating indeed." He murmured, "You had already infused the area with your Flames before we began our conversation, but the depth of saturation-that speaks of layers of Flames. Every time you came here, even when you were no doubt exhausted and licking your wounds, until-" suddenly, he laughed, "Of course, a fool was I not to see. Rain's soul and Mist's mind, but a Cloud's heart. Why should I expect any less, when the child's under a Sky of Giotto's line? Fate will twist, but destiny remains. And now I have stepped into a Cloud's Territory! But." And again is personality shifted, "Little heir, do you not realize? You have trapped yourself within this space with __****me****__."

"And so this one has." I replied serenely. "And thou shalt not leave."

There is a certain element of ritual to meetings such as this, expectations engrained within our selves so subtly we do not notice. A lingering spirit? He would be even more unconsciously hide-bound. A saying, 不打不相识, there is no understanding without battle. And without understanding, there can be no effective communication. Ugh, that sounded like something one might find in a cheap pop __something __book.

Spade's face twisted, "Do you presume to hold me?"

Stakes rose from the ground at my command. Chains twisted from thin air to crush them into pieces, but the splinters became blessed arrows aiming at his heart. He was gone in an eyeblink, and a bomb was thrown at my feet. I leapt clear. It exploded, sending shrapnel in my direction, but the shrapnel morphed into peach blossoms that fruited as they fell, rooting in the earth and growing into countless peach trees-the bane of evil and all that did not belong in the yang-world. Though mokuton really was not a Kirigakure trait, I'd let it slide in this case as the branches twisted and sought my opponent, directed unerringly by Kyoukau's sense of absence.

"I am Giotto's Mist!" Snarled the angry ghost, "and Ricardo's after Giotto abandoned us and I forced him to abdicate his privileges when he forsook his duty! I know what the Vongola should be. This softness will lead us to ruin but I intend to save Elena's legacy. There are sins to inherit and burdens to bear, and I will have a generation of nightmares that will take the mark of darkness proudly!"

"Sins to inherit?" I repeated under my breath.

Flapping.

Innumerable papers scattered from my open binder.

I caught a glimpse. It was inheritance tax paperwork. And income tax paperwork. And corporate tax paperwork (but those two should be mutually incompatible!). And. You get the idea.

"Forgive this one's pedantic behavior." I cut into his new rant, "According to Italian law, the inheritance tax alone should have rendered the current sin to 47.22% of the original. Factoring other forms of taxation, and bluntly speaking, it approaches zero too swiftly to be of relevance."

"YOU!"

Fire broke out, the black of Uchiha Itachi's Amaterasu and I recoiled on instinct, and that showed Spade weakness. However, though my own expectations had incinerated the trees, he did not understand what he had crafted. I would need a lure then, a weakness more attractive to draw attention away from the one I had inadvertently shown. The fear of drowning any other child would now have.

The water prison jutsu I had used to make my kekkai invoked the imagery of water, and that was half a step to an ocean. Water met fire and gave rise to superheated steam, salt falling like snow about the earth. Spade's will froze black fire into sharp obsidian, flying at me like glossy butterflies. I rolled low and used Matatabi to slip loose of new-formed chains, even as a wind from the coldfire blew white flakes towards Spade.

Salt and saltwater and sand and steel, with these things was a village built. Steam was mist was Mist was mine, salt to bind and iron to kill. Belief strengthened will, and stories gave rise to belief. I was hijacking the belief of this land right now, the culture that said to capture supernatural creatures with salt and slay them with iron, the tales Spade was raised with, not mine of peach wood and red-thread-bound-bronze-coin swords. What he was weak to, not what I was strong in.

Trap in a circle pale and powdery.

Zabuza's butcher blade swung out of the gloaming to decapitate, as bade by its name. Strength of illusion clashed against strength of will, and my lie-spun certainty won out. Daemon was forced to block with a scepter.

I was on the ground.

There was blood in my mouth.

My back was on fire.

Kyoukau warned of a man behind me, and I rolled out of the way, ignoring the pain which was false.

Another fireball. My rain-mists congealed into a shield and I forced myself to my feet. My attacker-Xanxus-Ricardo-genjutsu threw a Wrath-laced punch that would have been the undoing of anyone who thought to block instead of dodge. My youth saved me, for I had begun training in both my lives too young to be resilient, too delicate by virtue of age to not avoid any blow I could, unable to catch them safely, and those were the instincts that were laid in foundation, now brought to fore under sir. I stabbed, no longer empty-handed, but with a sewing needle my height in length, slick in my grip were it not for power holding it still, while my other hand pulled tight kami's hair and sinew, catching Ricardo's fist in the blow.

Chains were wrapping around me as water rose, no doubt attempting to capitalize on the assumed trauma from my near drowning. "So you were why the fat idiot survived." Spade cackled in delight, "Not a miraculous breeding-true of Vongola blood, just __you__."

But I was born of blood and mist and sea, and if we were to battle in water, then he was the fool. Raiton raced along the chains, kept from harming me by the absoluteness of my will. Spade spasmed as he was electrocuted, face locked in a teeth-baring grin, and as the water rose above my chin, even as the chains about me turned into live snakes (but what did I have to fear from snakes, oh creatures of-) that turned into a great crane in return that flew towards him before splitting into a flock of vultures that dive-bombed me and clawed at me and forced my head below the surface, but not before they turned back on their maker to peck at the gross and oozing wounds of the corpse I had made him become.

His pungent smell made me retch as sharks were drawn by the chum in the water.

The malodor was indicative of methane, and he exploded as I drew down a spark from the heavens. Gaping maws approached me. Blood in the water. Iruka had burst up from the lightless depths, ramming into the sharks' delicate stomachs.

Spade reformed as a thousand thousand eyes staring from a hundred hundred angles in dimensions beyond the mortal, twisted mouths and endless teeth, choking tongues of indeterminate length and organs beyond description. Standing upon water, I bowed a butler's bow, and then the world __warped__.

We became a flat surface of two dimensions, then we bounded past three towards five and then six and then thirteen. Spade was now matched by the world, and I was the unnatural interloper. I laughed, for I had seen far more of the world than he, bound still to one, though permitted to see more deeply. I had been punted between trees when he remained on no more than a single branch.

Physical discipline kept me from stumbling, and I used my needle-sword as a cane, hiding the action as the beginning of another attack. Mental discipline pushed down surprise. I had burned power too swift, too fierce. This was a war of attrition, and therefore one I was sure to lose. I had been playing by my old world's rules, where genjutsu cost little energy and paid dividends. Perhaps the conventional genjutsu I used could say the same, but Spade was using Real Illusions and things beyond them, and I needed to match him blow for blow. I did not have the reserves. But the fight was not over and I could not falter.

Insidious, tempting, a thought wormed its way into my mind. I had an alternative. A backup. Battle raged between Spade and I, the details of our conflict long beyond description by mortal sentences. All the while, I felt my candle burning at both ends.

I again struck a lethal blow. The world collapsed in an eyeblink until we were once again two human-shaped forms in a dome of soft blue light.

Spade laughed, "Twice now you have killed me. Shall we see if you can a third time?"

* * *

Tick. Tock. Tick tock. Ticktock.

I needed the power. I doubted I would have needed it were I more fully grown, but as of now… I could not lose. If Mukuro was discovered… well, the Madara/Indra situation was a nightmare. If I was killed, then sir's plans would fall apart, and this was war. If I was possessed… I had a responsibility to my people. My left hand came up.

His scythe came down. I jumped up and onto the metal, my weight bearing it down as the ground softened then solidified with the scythe embedded too deep to remove.

Rings are worn on the non-dominant hand. I was ambidextrous enough. The point of this was, as with all things, symbolism. Left hands and devil's blood. I slipped the unadorned band of metal onto my right pinkie.

__Contract__ __.__

The light's cyan tint richened into blazing cobalt as the kekkai collapsed, pouring down in a monsoon of the fire of the Nibi no Nekomata.

Three truths and two lies.

The first lie: I was the Antichrist, and the 666 was my signet ring.

.

The first truth: I was wearing a Hell Ring.

.

The second truth: Daemon Spade was dead.

.

The third truth: I wielded blue flames akin to those of the necromantic hellcat.

.

The last lie: My flames gave me dominion over the dead.

I danced as the Wili danced, and Daemon danced with me, as spirits must under the Nekomata's command. By birthright and earned right and usurper's right, and the improbable made probable, I fettered him with Will, for I was daughter of the Devil, and he was my subject. Seal.

That ice-sharp confidence that allowed me to cobble the pieces together would falter in an eyeblink, and the burning of my cursed ring warned me that I would do well not to push myself, so I put both down before they dropped from nerveless fingers, my seal fading to fragile gossamer ties with form but no force.

_If we shadows have offended,_

_Think but this, and all is mended,_

_That you have but slumber'd here_

_While these visions did appear._

_And this weak and idle theme,_

_No more yielding but a dream,_

_Gentles, do not reprehend:_

_if you pardon, we will mend:_

Thus spake Shakespeare, and thus were we, a touch sweaty, skin a bit tight from dried tears, but otherwise unmarred by our battle. Six steps apart, empty handed. Neither not too proud to show their exhaustion, both too wary to move from tense positions.

"So it ends," I commented politely, "Now we have both taken the other's measure."

"No." Spade said, ambling a few steps nearer, "So it begins."

The loose threads of my seal tightened about him for the price of the dregs of my reserves. He froze.

"So it ends." I insisted evenly, "At a stalemate."

He could continue fighting. I felt, in the depths of my soul, the potential for kinjutsu the Hell Ring had opened (why trade your soul away as a whole when could do so piece by piece?), so I could too.

Now, for the tricky bit. I needed to give him a way out that appealed to his pride. Ugh.

* * *

****MEMO****

****To ****Sawada Iemitsu

YoungLion

****From ****Basil

Basilicum

****Re**** Assassination Investigation

The situation is resolved for now, sir. The culprit is Daemon Spade, who is, though not breathing, not dead either. This one has succeeded in talking him down from practicing corrective murder as his own __external__ external consultant agency of one to accepting a position as a consultant of the External Consultancy by leveraging his obsession with Elena, Giotto, and Alaude and presenting this one as symbolizing both CEDEF and Giotto's legacy (He seems to be under the impression that this one is thy bastard son), which, coupled with this one's demonstrated competence, makes this one rather impossible to dismiss in his mind. He will seek to make this one, being the represention of the two he feels have betrayed him most grievously, acknowledge him as the superior, and to mold this one, as the heir to a greater third of Vongola's (i.e. his) legacy, as he wills. Both impulses are manageable, and quite frankly, given thine explanation of 10th Generation Politics, it is this one's belief that it behooves to learn and practice even the more extravagant of the Mist techniques, especially the ones unfit to be spoken of in polite company.

It is this one's suggestion that Oregano affects or emphasizes similarities to Elena and Daniela (Ottava), so as to make Spade marginally more biddable.

Complete psych analysis is attached. This one is lost as to how to handle the rest of the mess. Forgive this one for the incompetence, but this one pleads youth, inexperience and absolute exhaustion.

Awaiting instructions,

Basil.

Postscript: As misfortune would have it, circumstances seemed to necessitate the donning of this one's 1000-1.

Post-postscript: Turmeric wishes me to reiterate that thy reports on pruning the Fiscella Famiglia are as of this day, overdue. Please hurry.

**Neither party was truly committing to the fight: Daemon didn't use his playing cards, etc. Basil kept a few of the more permanently damaging things up their sleeve. They both want to use the other, after all.**  
**Basil's seems to be developing a M.O. of talking people down, then getting them therapy after.**  
**And yes, if you spot Spade being Biblical, it's there on purpose, because he's an overdramatic ghost.**


	25. Chapter 25

"You are an idiot." Mammon loomed by dint of floating at just-above-eye-level.

"You did not sell your soul." The Mist Officer clarified, "What you did was worse."

"Oh?"

"Just selling your soul, if that thing exists, would just be a short hurt and a long-term new status quo for you. What you did was accept a wager."

I fiddled with the ring, letting it roll in my palms. "A wager?"

"It'll tempt you. It'll whisper all the time and seem more than reasonable when you need it. It'll use a thousand small inconveniences to wear at your judgment. And it will constantly skim away your Flames. You lose the moment you succumb to it. You haven't lost if the game is still going. The closest you will come to winning would be if you die before you bow to it. But death to escape its power is surrender as well."

My Rain was untouched, but it was true that my Mist was being siphoned out. "This one can hardly find trouble in the thieving of this one's power." I said honestly, "When it softens that side of this one and is far slower than this one can regenerate such power."

"You fool." Mammon whispered, "Once you put on a Hell Ring, __it only comes off the other end__. You've doomed yourself to a lifetime of give and take, of careful watchfulness as you bite down any hint of excess emotion, while that ball and chain on your hand pokes and prods at you to stoke your Flames high, draining, and draining, and draining. All you gain in return is a nebulous hand on the scales of probability, and access to greater power when circumstances are truly dire. You will have to watch yourself every moment lest you turn into a monster."

"These things are unwelcome." I concurred. "Yet this one believes this one capable of enduring."

Shinobi. The one who endures. A new layer to that term.

"Did you listen?" Mammon snarled, crossing and uncrossing tense arms, "These consequences are not only for you! You'll be the customer of one of the worst insurances in existence and that will __spill over__! It will affect everything, including relationships with others, from the Young Lion to Bel. If you succumb to the Hell Ring, then you will need to be put down, and do you know how difficult that is? Or how that would affect your motley collection of acquaintances?"

Oh. I looked up, "This one understands."

Mammon had turned away, and I could just about read through the cloak and hood the desire to hunch and curl into a ball in their body language. "For some utterly Geld-forsaken reason, I care. If you need help, come to me. I will charge three-quarters my usual rates."

An Arcobaleno's curse was similar, yet both crueler and kinder. There were outer signs. There was the absolute violation of being forced into a different, hobbled, degrading shape. There was no fighting, no terrible bait of hope. No fear of failure, when one was steeped in bitter, breaking despair, and was already bearing the consequences. No need to claw for ground against the Adversary, with all one loved the collateral, for one's enemies were mortal. All the crueler for it. Mammon was willing to brave that pain to succor me.

I bowed, "Mist Officer."

"Rain-in-Residence." Mammon replied stiffly, determinedly not looking back while leaving.

* * *

I needed to test Mammon's warning. Hell Rings only came off the other end, he had told me, but I took the ring off and set it aside with relief-shock-__tried to__. It stuck to my left index finger and refused to come off. I tugged with my other hand. The Ring went with it with perfect ease. Then it stubbornly stayed cemented to my skin.

Oh well, be that way.

I kept the hem of my sleeve between my fingers and the metal, and gave it a hard yank. Ow. Skin and flesh deformed under the force, but the Ring stubbornly remained attached.

Well, now. Juubi, Kaguya, and Zetsu, this situation was becoming rather complicated. I would rather not have to self-mutilate.

I didn't remember having that excessive a reaction to being bound. Heart of a Cloud indeed. But panic would not serve me now, so panic I would not. I replaced the Ring on its proper place upon my right pinkie. The physical presence was easier to panic over. However, it was not important. Handseals had no function beyond psychosomatic here. So, a finger could be lost with little consequence. It might even be reattachable. Oh well, dealing with a curse that had the decency to admit what it was seemed quite more pleasant than beating back the pressure of fate with no more than mortal will and mortal fury. No proselytizing greater-than-thou beings either. The simile of the insurance company: one paid premiums, and when more than one had at hand was needed and circumstance were met, one would be given aid. Of course, as with all such entities, they earned more than they gave. But it was the promise of certainty, and I could accept that.

The other warning. A monster: rage, or its opposite, apathy. The Wrath of the King and the Sloth of the Prince. Rage, in reaction to the constant irritations. Apathy, as was born from an attempt to shield oneself from rage. I was both well and ill-suited to bearing a Ring that affected the wielder so. I was a kunoichi, taught to bend and bow and smile, endure trials of the heart and adversity that chafed the spirit. I was shaped to last and have no temper even when every little thing in the world frayed my nerves. But I knew how to see pieces and boards and games in a world of living, breathing, feeling individuals. In my last life between the Kage and another better that it was the more expendable that risked needing to be disposed of and so it was I who had become cold.

Self-awareness was the solution, or at least the better part of it. But I was, ultimately, a subjective observer. Therefore, I had to rely on others.

I began writing. A report, for shishou and my fellow apprentices. A letter, to my prince.

* * *

Iemitsu knew he was an impulsive man. Don't glare! He could be! Besides, people'd think he was creepy instead of lucky if they didn't think he was impulsive! He was winged everything because his hunches were always right! Look at his Terrifying Trio and his Awesome not-Arcobaleno! They were all here, in the CEDEF, because he followed his instincts!

Lal was really very down when he first met her, so he tried to be sunny and cheer her up, and just annoying enough that she'd have something to pummel without regrets—it worked out super well, with Lal getting better and his combat skills improving as well—win-win! Then he thought: Lal might need someone to teach, and be friends with, and be scary with, so he went looking. He knew that the Arcobaleno were cursed adults in the shapes of babies, and that their pacifiers drained away the flames. However, what no one else noticed, was that they were all Pure Flames. So, he got the funny feeling that maybe Impure Flames would be a better choice, plus Lal's Flames were Impure too, so… something?

Then he was going back to Japan even if he didn't exactly have good memories of the place, went fishing, bought a coffee, and found the most beautiful woman in the world—!*`'*Nana*`'*! She was perfect, he fell in love, did his best and she then loved him too! They became literal Soulmates! And even if Nana was too Electric to be treated well by the Mafia, she was still brilliant, and perfect, and beautiful, and his One True Love!

He took the Electric Mist now under his Sky as a sign, and began making his own family—because that was what Flames were, weren't they? A way to make a family without all the icky messy stuff that was trying to do right with a baby. You picked up people who could look after themselves and stand up for themselves if you were bad. Also, Project: Find Lal a Friend.

He looked in Mafia Academy, and there was the veritable whirlwind that was Mar—Oregano. No calling Oregano by her old name unless he wanted to be under attack on all fronts and not even be able to turn on the lights when he wanted too! It was so unfair that Turmeric could. But Turmeric did get a whole lot of passes with Oregano. He even followed her into the CEDEF just because she decided she wanted him around! It wasn't a bad decision, since Lal got a Misty-Cloud under her wing and he got someone who appreciated beer instead of posh Italian wines. Even if Turmeric hated coffee, was raised in a weird house, and had a grandmother who had way too many bright red apples and gingerbread and a talking mirror.

His first two apprentices were totally the __best__, take that, Timmy & co! Oregano set him straight on whether it was acceptable to use rolled up newspapers—it wasn't, unless he wanted to be hit around the head with a rolled-up report in return. Turmeric was cool as well—he was perfect for bouncing ideas off of and the sauerkraut attack was absolute genius! He never knew he managed to snatch up one of the poison cookers of the generation (although Oma was a hint)!

Then there was the time when he didn't really listen to his instincts and that proved to him why his family needed to be composed of people who could defend themselves and not tiny children.

Then, when he walked into the library, he got Basil, his youngest and weirdest. He didn't really want Basil at first, because Basil was teeny and that meant he wasn't going to be good at dealing with the child-rearing part of the mentor-parent thing. But Basil wasn't bad! They fit right in and kept up and could stand up for themself well enough to tell him when he got child-rearing too wrong (he might practice enough for Tsuna in another year!).

He didn't plan on telling people that Basil was the Antichrist, but he really really wanted to, so he did! Basil was very Misty, so pretending to be the Antichrist was like casting a genjutsu over everybody so they believed it was true and made it true. Iemitsu could have chosen something else, but Antichrist just seemed to fit! No pesky weaknesses from the old stories, plus alot of cool powers (on second thought, the alien values Basil exhibited might have been exacerbated by the Antichrist thing). Not like fairies/sidhe, who would have been bound by geas and unable to lie and stuff. And unlike his attempt at calling Oregano Athena, Antichrist wasn't an actual name! So, Antichrist was the best, because that lie could became sort-of-truthful for Basil, while his youngest apprentice retained everything that kept him him, including free will, even if that meant Basil-kun choosing the Varia demon*wail*.

But Iemitsu was feeling a whole lot less confident at the moment. Basil-kun just sent a report about that nasty evil ring, and he felt that mayyybee he shouldn't have used Antichrist. Basil could fool Hyper Intuition, so maybe the evil accessory did too?

But that way lay madness. One of his cubs needed him at the moment. How long had it been since he took his pride out for ice cream? They could all take half a day of vacation!

* * *

I had grown used to street-side clothes once again during the war, given how many times stay-beneath-notice had been in my mission parameters. Sir hadn't, because he had a Reputation. So he was now trying to figure out what to wear, and for some inexplicable reason, he was taking his time like a civilian woman. It was also possible that he was doing so on purpose to leave me alone with Turmeric in the garage.

The most down-to-earth of our lot sighed at me. "I'm not angry at your decision, Basil, I'm just disappointed."

Deliberate tardiness it was.

"I distinctly remember Oregano telling you that Hell Rings always come at a cost, and that you were well aware of the dangers of sticking fingers into random pieces of metal. So why did you?"

"This one made a choice, in reaction to the circumstances." I clarified, and that should have been the end of it, shouldn't it? It was just a matter of managing the consequences.

"You made a __sacrifice__." He corrected, "You paid a __price__. Basil, you did something irreversible to take care of a threat that could have been neutralized if you had just __called for help__."

"It was the optimal solution!" I protested.

"In no sense of the word!" He disagreed vehemently, "A good solution with fewer drastic, long-term consequences would have been more than acceptable than this so-called-best, as you very well should have realized if you weren't emotionally compromised by the adrenaline."

Juubi, Tobi, Madara. Uchiha, Uzumaki, Senju, Kaguya. __Kaguya__. I was an absolute __imbecile__. I missed __that__. My body was a ridiculous, six-year-old body, and that meant I was impulsive, short-sighted, tunnel-visioned, and most certainly not always a reliable decision maker, even disregarding my rubbish ring. __Tobirama__ biology. I forgot about the cost-benefit of trust and communication. In other words, I had been sliding towards becoming a brooding lone hero.

The horror.

"Is there any word, which this one, as a child, may use to express the depths of dismay now felt?" I asked, self-discipline lax enough to stare emptily into the distance.

"Well, given your age, I would think that a simple fecal invective would do." Turmeric replied dryly.

Oh well. "Coprolite."

With impeccable timing, sir bounced into the garage, greeted us boisterously, and unlocked the blending-in car.

"Okay! Oregano is going to meet us at the gelato stand in a moment, so we can go now!" He cheered, "Ice cream time!"

* * *

Ice cream makes everything better. I kicked my feet in my chair as I enjoyed the orangey concoction of flavors that was my sorbet, which Bel stole bites of in between devouring his own strawberry and cardamom gelato.

"The 666 is __honest__, but convoluted in exchange." I explained, keeping my heart light but my words truthful. Turmeric had engaged sir and Oregano in conversation, leaving us alone to talk.

Bel drew patterns with his pink ice-cream melt. "Peasants never name things properly. Probability manipulators should be called that. Biased probability manipulators should be labeled accordingly."

"Generally speaking, even the most biased of probability manipulators are not actively malicious." I helped myself from Bel's cup. "This one's is."

"Futility." Bel pronounced, shrugging with comforting confidence in me, "The Prince does not see why peasant's wares would bother inciting frustration in both possessor and item for no particular gain."

"Surely, my prince, thou say not that this one has weathered worse simply from existing along with this one's master!" I exclaimed, but now that I had verbalized the idea, it was making an inexplicable amount of sense. Fantastical, insensible sense, but sense nonetheless.

Bel grinned with effortless not-quite-arrogance, "Peasants are already mindless. Anything gotten of them would be even duller yet."

I felt my lips twitching upwards, mirroring his expression. Because Sawada Iemitsu was quite definitely the most obnoxiously irritating entity in existence, and no mere ring could hope to rival him. Hopeful mirth, bubbling up like sweet springwater, had me hugging Bel again as I laughed. "Thank you!" I all but sang, "This one needed such a reminder!"

That was when we were interrupted by a shadow looming over us.

"And now," Oregano said ominously, "We will discuss exactly what you were thinking when you managed to get me and Turmeric mixed up."

I blinked, "How so?"

"Turmeric's the one who is willing to be nice and cushion his words." Oregano said, light glinting dangerously off her glasses, "There's a reason we shift most of the things requiring the subtle social touch to his desk. I do not have and am not inclined to have Elena's brand of soft strength, and as to Ottava, I am as alike her as I will ever be. Which you knew." She looked at me disappointedly.

Giddy with relief, I pouted, "Twas worth a try."

She snorted, "You aren't getting out of an apology. Two favors, no questions asked."

"One favor, and I'll take the morning shift for a week." I bargained.

"Forfeit breakfast rights for that week too and it's a deal." With Lal added, there were five people who ate from our common room kitchen. We each chose what breakfast was for one day of the week (weekends had brunch). I loved baked beans and pickles. Oregano hated beans. Ergo, breakfast rights surrendered, no beans for another week and an extra day of bacon.

"Accepted."

"Poor destitute peasants." Bel interjected cheerfully, now resting his head on crossed arms, "Such conflicts could be easily solved should you come to the Prince's Court. We have a breakfast buffet!"

"No, Bel." I sighed, "Better to reign in heaven than serve in hell."

"I see that you have inherited my habit of mauling turns of phrase." And our resident angry ghost broke Omerta by appearing out of thin air. "Hello, small child that I am inexplicably but undeniably attached to, and you, another one of the terrifying women in my life. Congratulations on disappointing me again with your paper-thin manipulations which you didn't even bother to keep secret. What is that witch's brew there?"

Oregano's ice cream dwarfed everyone else's put together. Easily. It was a rainbow of flavors drenched in syrup and buried under toppings. And our melee fighter had already polished off one quarter.

"Gelato." Turmeric answered disapprovingly, "And while mangling phrases can be accepted, please don't misterm things, it leads to mix ups. Witches' brews are things my grandmother makes, gelato is just gelato."

"That is not gelato." Daemon groused, "Gelato, proper gelato is just not made anymore. In my day, you only used milk, sugar, and perhaps custard. What is this 'passionfruit'? It sounds like an aphrodisiac, yet for some God-forsaken reason, it is in common usage and accessible to children—not including the two compressed terrors at the table. Honestly, what has the world come to?"

"Nonsense, my man!" Sir tried to ruffle Daemon's hair, "It's a good time to live in, and a better time than it was! No moping! That'll just make you even grumpier, and we can't have that can we? Think positively!"

I noticed Oregano's expression. It was like the one Academy Teachers made when one of the first years produced a collection of messy kanji and called it fūinjutsu, "What was thine actual manipulation?"

She suppressed a snort and whispered back, "Drew a line between Elena's death and her being unable to defend herself due to societal expectations. He's now campaigning for gender equality in combat training and cultural reform instead of murder."

* * *

**In which yes, Basil occasionally uses people in their world as swearwords instead of kami, god, fuck, etc. This is unique to Kiri.**

**And Oregano is effortlessly practical, as always.**

**Turmeric's grandmother is the archetypical old witch in the woods. Can't decide if she lives in a gingerbread house or a Baba Yaga chicken-footed one.**

**Lal is off training newbies to replenish CEDEF ranks. This is bonding time between the Lion's Pride.**


	26. Chapter 26

"Full House."

"Straight Flush."

"Damn. Best two out of three?" Lal glared at the winning hand Daemon had lain upon the table, "I'll give you this one, but no Mist-tricks next time. We're fighting on pure skill."

"This one will leave then!" I interjected cheerfully, "Probability altering rings shouldn't factor into the outcome!"

Lal snorted, "I'll allow luck if that sea bunny doesn't Mist his cards. You can stay. Cards are a life skill, and you need to learn the rules before Oregano starts teaching you to count cards and Iemitsu starts waxing poetic about manliness."

"I take offense!" Daemon glared back at Lal, "I did not use any tricks. You were just far too terrible at judging your odds."

Oregano raised a judging eyebrow as she displayed her own hand, which included a nine of spades. There was a nine of spades on the table as part of Daemon's straight flush. "Narcissism much?" She asked.

I didn't actually hold much fondness for card games. Competitive games lose their luster when one spends all of one's hours participating in the mad scramble of villages and nations abroad, and the cooperative become either too boring or unpleasantly work-like after one has to balance the interests of Kiri's factions, birthed of Chigiri's remnants. Still, poker was as much an exercise in psychology as anything, and I Doubt It was basically the Academy's _I Know You Are but What Am I_ (horrible name, I know, but it's stuck) so I settled down to watch.

Lal was closest to me. Clockwise sat Sir, Daemon, and then Oregano at Lal's other side. Turmeric was knitting something. Yellow, from pomegranate rind. Blue from woad, and a red that I did not recognize. I would have preferred watching him knit to watching the quartet at play, but alas, I can't knit, even if I'm quite good at crochet—having a brother who's weapon is a giant hook will do that to you, so I should probably try to learn something about cards rather than beat a dead horse.

"I hear you say a Five of Clubs!" Sir warbled cheerfully, "But I say thee nay, as Basil would say! Because, my dear man, _I_ have a Five of Clubs!"

On second thought, I'd rather try learning knitting again. It'd be less embarrassing.

* * *

Of course, the life of a CEDEF employee was never peaceful for long. Massimo tried to come calling, now that the current bout of territory disputes and power plays was winding down and CEDEF wasn't busy at the edges of every conflict with blackmail and favors to invoke, but I had promised Bianchi to play music with her brother. So, in the tried-and-true art of conscientiously avoiding irritants, packing my child's violin and a hamper of baked goods, all of us piled into a car and drove to the Bianchi's family manor. That was easier done than said, given that we only numbered three adult-sized individuals, a toddler-sized adult, a six-year-old, and an incorporeal at will ghost. Of course, no one actually wanted Daemon to come, but as we couldn't exactly claim that there wasn't space in the car, he came.

Bianchi was as full of good cheer as ever, and greeted me with a hug and a plate of cookies. I gingerly took one from the edges, and risked a bite. To my surprise, it was delicious, moist, soft, and not overly sweet.

"I've been improving!" She grinned at my surprise, "These took me three tries to make, but they are absolutely safe to eat! I tested on father first!"

"Really?" I asked in awe, "Thou truly fed thy progenitor potentially poisoned provisions?"

She laughed, "That alliteration was cool, but yeah! I figured that if he wasn't going to let me stop cooking, he might as well suffer the consequences! Come on! Hayato's picked a few of his favorites, let's go look them over!"

I was then dragged at full speed up the stairs and into the children's wing, leaving my colleagues behind (but bringing my belongings with me), which was quite in order with the expected proceedings. When I went to Bianchi's, I got dragged away from icky grownups to have fun tea parties/brunch and talk about magical creatures and debate chemistry. When I went to Bel's, I got dragged away to spar and snuggle and talk about our lives. Neither involved adulting, which was a novel experience. I had never been a child in Chigiri, only a particularly small and inexperienced adult; on the other hand, I can't be a grownup now, so, hello again, childhood!

Plush carpets covered the floor, absorbing the pounding of Bianchi's footsteps. She threw open the door to the music room, revealing a floor hidden by pages upon pages of sheet music and a piano to the side. Hayato was sitting by a low table laden with those strange tiers of plates and elaborate crockery. I was happy to discover an array of savory concoctions along with the sweet, and scented the fragrance of an excellent Earl Grey as well as the barest hint of perfume from the flowers in the centerpiece.

"Basil!" Hayato waved, "Hello!"

"Salutations!" I greeted back, joining him on a cushion. Bianchi cleaned a path over to us and settled down as well. I carefully set my violin out of the way, then we unloaded the contents of my hamper onto the table. Tupperware joined fine china on the table in an incongruous combination.

"How has it been?" Bianchi asked, "You haven't really replied to my letters for a while, I was wondering if something was wrong."

"Work." I grumbled, pouring myself tea, "You know how complicated the last few months were, and this one was stuck in the middle of it."

"How so?" Bianchi asked, "I mean, I ran a few minor missions with Turmeric, but they were so minor that even mother couldn't say anything."

"Better." I corrected cheerfully, "Boredom is the greatest enemy!"

"But Bianchi's missions were already thrilling!" Hayato objected, "How can yours be more so?"

"Higher stakes, for one." Was I supposed to soften the tale? Reduce the bloodshed? Hayato was almost civilian! I nodded at Bianchi, "Thou acted as courier for a briefcase of banknotes, this one remembers."

"Yeah." She confirmed, "Knocked into Turmeric, bait-and-switch with the fake one in the bookbag, then took the bus for two stops to the station, got spotted by the bad guys, retreated to the fast food stalls and hit them with hot oil. Evaded, got on the train at the last second, hunkered down in the food car, and got the package to the drop-off point."

"Sis turned mashed potatoes into a Slime!" Hayato interjected, "She said that it was closer to the Type II than the Type IV, but I think the level of sentience means it was a Type I!"

I hastily chose the caviar-on-bread snack instead of the potato sandwich.

Bianchi blushed, "I used the CEDEF Flame Infusion Management technique as inspiration for how I made Blanche. I didn't get to test it out though, since I made it on the food car and there weren't any enemies after." She ate the potato sandwich sadly, "And Blanche wasn't contagious or self-repairing, so it couldn't keep long and got mold afterwards."

The contagion aspect of our paperwork management technique was another closely guarded secret, so Bianchi figuring anything out was worthy of praise, especially since the Varia had failed to comprehend them in any capacity, save for Tyr. "This one is certain that future works shall be greater yet!" I encouraged, "This one has also couriered, both secrets and tangible items, yet though money, if discovered, arouses great suspicion, it is not illegal to bear great sums about. Firearms, however, are. Though for the most part, this one's missions include a great number of incidents in which this one stole information to incriminate enemies, which did bear the risk of discovery, violence, blood and death."

"What was the weirdest incident?"

I grimaced, "This one was once nearly killed over tobacco, of all things."

"Tobacco?" Hayato asked. He, unlike us, hadn't been taught the dull and dreary realities of the smuggling business. Firearms, yes. Drugs, occasionally, though Vongola preferred to keep its hands clean. Alcohol, tobacco, caviar—even sugar—paid acceptably well and drew far less attention from law enforcement agencies.

Bianchi explained. I ate a cracker topped with foie gras. I missed the actual chunks of liver at home, the texture wasn't close to the same.

I then summarized that particular adventure, which began with me coloring with _crayons_ at a table and ended with me in a red wig being chased through a butcher's after planting doctored product in three shipments as well as nicking choice Cuban cigars for bribery purposes. Drugged product, to be exact. Remember what I said about drugs drawing attention? That meant my targets would receive far harsher scrutiny. And treatment.

Both siblings were wide-eyed at the end of it. "Unfortunately, there weren't any UMAs." I concluded. "That there is a portrait of Daemon Spade in the Iron Fort which is believed to be possessed, this one offers as an alternative."

"A ghost?" Bianchi asked me, "Or a demon?"

Hayato chimed in with the multiple classifications of ghosts and demons. "Professor Ghostre Born reclassified posthumous apparitions into poltergeists, ghasts, geists, spirits, shades, shadows, wraiths, phantoms and specters, but he only gave three classifications of demon: Demon, Nareto, and Archdemon. If the portrait's possessed, then it should be a Demon or a shade, phantom, or specter, but I don't know which and there isn't much information available on identifying different types of hauntings, because most of the literature is virtually indistinguishable from Victorian era horror and a lot of it is disguised as fiction which makes sleuthing very difficult!"

And this lively discussion was slightly complicated by the fact that I had noticed at least one of Reborn's paper-thin aliases in his monologue, so I was rather more aware of the potential ulterior motives of the authors Hayato referenced. Not to mention Nareto. That sounded far like the orange friend-making demon of my past life. And it was an anagram of Renato. But half of that was classified, and I wasn't certain the other half, if revealed, would change Hayato's opinion at all—Reborn was such a legend that he could probably claim to be the foremost authority in crystal healing and be believed. Not to mention the fact that the spirit in question was currently lurking about the building.

I compromised. "Flames are involved, so there may be more to it. This one could put thee in contact with one who may be more of an expert on this subject, if thou willst more over this subject matter learn. As of now, should we not begin picking a piece to perform?"

Bianchi let out a giggle, "You did it again with the Ps! Hayato? Is that okay?"

"Another expert?" He asked seriously, "What have they published?"

"Age restrictions bar him from submitting any papers." I explained apologetically.

Hayato nodded slowly. "Then I'll see. What do you want to play?"

"This one would suggest something evocative of what we have just discussed, if thou art willing." I offered.

"Spooky music?" Hayato frowned and drew a finger down a list of titles, "We can do a requiem! It's the end of another war, so it's—maybe—thematically appropriate?"

"But that's too depressing." Bianchi traced a pattern through a splash of spilled tea, "Grownups won't like it if you do something slow and gloomy, especially when father really wants to have people see your special playing. I think you should do something flashier."

"Pity it isn't Halloween." I leaned over to look at the list. I only recognized a handful of the selection. "This one will bow to your judgment in this matter."

* * *

When we finally decided on something, one of the strings of my violin broke. Of course it did. Unfortunately for my Ring, I had made contingencies, so I restrung it under the curious gaze of my fellow musician, demonstrated the use of resin, and then began to practice with him.

After another broken string, a snapped peg, and Bianchi almost corrupting the poor, abused wood of my instrument, Hayato and I managed to get the shape of the song down and were in the process of refining the details. Naturally, that was when half the flowers in the centerpiece wilted.

"Dad's coming." Bianchi warned. Which meant that she had managed to create a warning system using Poison Cooking and whatever Turmeric was teaching her.

Hayato immediately changed his playing, fingers blurring across the keys and shifting the rhythm. I was hard-pressed to keep up and fell to playing second fiddle. Bianchi brushed her fingers over the plate of biscuits closest to him, turning them poisonous purple and steaming with infernal vapors.

"Good afternoon, children!" He greeted, throwing open the door and stepping inside, ignoring the papers underfoot. "How is your practice going?"

"As well as can be expected, father." Bianchi answered as I set down my bow and Hayato feigned a stomachache.

"Excellent!" He smiled widely, "Then let's have you practice a bit more, then show our guests what you have accomplished!"

"Yes father." Hayato coughed out, covering his mouth to hide the lack of blood.

I bowed shallowly, "This one would be honored."

I raised my violin again. Hayato turned back to the piano. Bianchi slipped a tart into her hand as she followed her father to the door, dropping the now-living food down behind him before shutting it with forced lightness. We created frenzied cacophonies of sound until she nodded and gave us the all clear.

"I hate him!" She hissed vehemently.

"How old art thou?" I inquired, carefully detached.

"Thirteen." She snarled darkly, pacing the empty edges of the room. Old enough to inherit, "I'm still too young to get anyone to listen to me! And they wouldn't do so anyway!" Not old enough for the mafia.

As if summoned by her helpless fury, Daemon appeared in my field of vision. "Fear not, little heir." He drawled at my glare, "I remain unseen by the others."

I ignored him. "Would it be possible to enlist thy mother's aid?"

"No!" She shook her head violently, "She won't mind doing away with father, but then she'll get rid of Hayato too! She hates him!" Bianchi clenched her hands into fists. Forced them flat and gestured wildly to empty air. Continued pacing, hair whirling about her face at each turn.

"Would you say," I asked both siblings, "That thy parents have both forsaken their duties as thy parents?"

"Yes!" Bianchi was incandescent in her fury, barest hints of Flame licking at her hair.

"Hayato?" I asked carefully.

He shook his head, "I don't know! Mother is—" He caught himself, "I love father but Bianchi—he makes Bianchi give me the—I want to—but—"

He burst into tears. Half furious, half confusion, tinged with grief and betrayal both. "Then would you say," I continued, gentling my tone, "That you are released from your obligations as their heirs?"

"Definitely." Bianchi confirmed darkly.

Hayato nodded, pressing his eyes into a napkin.

Daemon leaned forward, vicious hunger in his eyes. "Then let this house be destroyed, little heir. It is unworthy of its children."

"Then." I smiled sharply, "Will you allow this one to act purely in your interests, even when they come in conflict with those of your family?"

* * *

And so, parricide was planned in children's playrooms, driven by an elder sibling's fierce love, the respect it had earned from a vengeful shade, and of course, as always, lingering in the background, my young master's interests, acted upon by me.

* * *

**Currently, given the COVID-19 situation, I'm slightly disappointed by the dearth of no crowding memes. Listen to Hibari, herbivores!**


	27. Chapter 27

Once upon a time, there was an old woman. No, this gives the wrong impression. The old woman is still there, like many of her kind, keepers of knowledge—and therefore power—far beyond men. The old woman was—is—a witch.

In a time—a darker time, perhaps—a meaner time, certainly, and a time when magic existed openly in the world, before cold iron, hot powder, and clean penstrokes banished it to shadowed corners and liminal spaces—there was a woodcutter. Woodcutters and their children seemed to be rather prone to strange happenstances at that time, as it were, and so, he loved, and married, and his wife bore him two children.

You know this story, don't you? The two children were named Hansel and Gretel. The first a boy, the second a girl. Their mother died, and their stepmother, in the manner of stepmothers of this sort, found them expendable when famine struck. They were left in the woods and the hands of fate. Of course, in the manner of all children left in the woods, they did not die. The first time, they found their way back home; the second time, lost deep in the dark forest, they found their way to a house. A wonderous house! One of gingerbread and icing, spun sugar and tempered chocolate. Driven by hunger, these two children ate, and for their crimes, the brother was imprisoned, to pay back with flesh what he had unlawfully taken (for witches have their own laws, see, alien to us though they may seem); the sister indentured, to work off her debt by feeding her penned brother and keeping the witch's house.

You know what happened. The brother endured—the passive sort of endurance, bearing captivity and confinement and the knowledge of his impending death, forced to watch his sister suffer. The sister endured—the active sort of endurance, biting down on rebellion and too-telling inquisitiveness and the fear of the fate in store for her brother, forced to comport herself despite her hands being forced to bring their doom. In the end, the sister's ingenuity, coupled with courage, defeated the witch and won the siblings their freedom.

This is when the story starts being wrong. Witches are feared by men, and men react to their fears with fire. No witch worth her spells can be harmed by it, not if she has any love of life. But Gretel had won the house and its contents by right of conquest, so the witch could not—would not either—oppose the girl further. The children left. The witch left also, to build another house of cakes and cookies.

The children grew up, and had children of their own, who had children in turn, allowing memory to fade to mere myth, as they lived their mundane lives. Yet their ancestors had supped at a table of a Hexe, and that marked their blood as changed. Touched by witchcraft—a very attractive quality, for certain other creatures.

* * *

Uncounted generations passed. The witch checked on the descendants of the siblings who bested her, sometimes. Call it curiosity, call it concern, call it a combination of the two. It was only natural for her to hear the news of one of them being taken by the Courts. Seelie. They had a fascination for the simple innocence of children, as great as the Unseelie love of adults' complexity of emotion. The witch watched as the mother went to treat with the Court, as such things went—and if the way to the Good Neighbors was so easily found, what of it? If the woman found two iron knitting needles in her pack, what of it? If a red riding hood could be found beneath a tree, if a wolf would startle the woman from her enchanted stupor, if a hoary crone gave her a flask of some vital substance for no more than a story, what of it?

These too-fair folk had changed since the days when Janet could save her knight by waiting at a crossroads and not letting go. Though the woman saved her child, she lost her life.

The old woman had cradled the infant in its swaddling, and laughed away all the fair lords and ladies who cooed endearments and dripped sympathy with honeyed voices, then tramped back to her new gingerbread house.

The baby had been fed with goat's milk and bread sops, watched over by skulls glowing with fire within. He grew up stirring mysterious concoctions and knitting cotton candy to sweaters for gingerbread children (there was an episode during which he thought himself one of them, and was deathly afraid of water and foxes both). There had been no one to return the boy to, and so he was raised by three riders, of the sun, night, and day, two witches, one tall and thin, the other plump and stout, and a single great wolf, taller than he.

He learned strange things, in his childhood years: guard your name carefully, give it to no one. True love is potent beyond measure, though it need not be born from Cupid's arrow-prick. Evil stepparents get their comeuppance.

The last, Turmeric mused, was the one he least expected to be relevant. And yet here he was, teaching Bianchi about tinctures of arsenic and cyanide, and shape of Flame that coaxed ergot to lethal potency. Hemlock was too noble a death, given who had also perished by it. Aconite, that old faithful, but one which on account of the Wolf, he did not use. Foxglove, with its brilliant blooms and medical properties.

"Slow poisoning still remains ineffective." He tried again, "Your parents know that you have Poison Cooking, so they will react the moment symptoms of poisoning show up."

"That," Bianchi replied darkly, "Is why I am going to use multiple, non-Flame poisons."

He drew in a breath, but Bianchi continued through gritted teeth, "Basil has explained the precedent of open challenges to me already, but I don't care! I don't _fucking_ care about legitimizing my inheritance, I don't care for my Famiglia. I just want my brother, and my parents can go _fuck _themselves!"

Revenge. Poetic justice usually turned out well, though one should not escalate. "Then use a single-dose poison." He pointed out the array of death-dealing substances laid out upon the laboratory counter.

_Hiss_. The foxglove rose menacingly, pink and red trumpets swelling once more with life, "They made me poison my brother!" Bianchi snarled, unearthly fragrance coming from where her hands clenched the foxglove stalks, and the layers of blossoms darkened to deathly hues, shedding white pollen and dripping too-viscous nectar. "They want me to _keep poisoning my brother_! They deserve to suffer what they wanted us to suffer—not just—not just die a quick death!"

Gretel never regretted pushing Oma into the oven, and yet she did return to that place where a candy-house moldered, and stand there, in the snow, and try to silence the screams in her memory. Gretel never regretted any of it, least of all saving her brother, and there had been no question that the witch had been deserving. Yet she had needed to silence those screams.

"It will be unpleasant to look at." Warned the grandson of that witch, who was also the manifold-great-grandson of her victim, "No matter how terrible your target, they are still human—you will still care. That is not wrong. A swift death would be easier on both sides—it'll be better by far than looking at lingering suffering."

"They deserve it!"

"They will not know what their penance is for." He countered evenly, "There is no point in it—the satisfaction won't last, but the memory of their last moments will."

The monkshoods of aconite were flourishing as well now, purple as bruises and yellow as brimstone, his student's Storm expressing what her words could not, pain tangible in the toxins now hanging in the air, forcing him to stoke his own Flames to survive them.

"I hate them!" Bianchi hissed again, the stems of foxglove pulping in her fingers to ooze up her arms, coating her hands in a cross of lady's gloves and knight's gauntlets, all in lurid shades of plum and pink.

"It is reasonable to." He agreed, "But any victim of slow poisoning dies in a pitiable state, and I do not think you truly seek such cruelty."

Bianchi grimaced, and paced, and kicked at a wall. Finally, she threw down the stalks in exhaustion, "You're right. I don't." She slumped, "But I still want them to suffer."

"Humiliation is suffering." Turmeric suggested, "Knowing that they have lost their children's love is also suffering. Being forced to face you on the dueling grounds would be suffering also. And they do not call for pity."

"It is easier to be angry for a short while than to hold it for years." Bianchi scrubbed her face with a sleeve, "I know that. I think that I need to think."

"That would be for the best, I believe."

"Sorry for the mess."

"Don't worry about that. I'll clean up, you head upstairs."

"Thanks."

* * *

Turmeric pulsed disintegrating Storm Flames through the space, careful to avoid damaging the appliances. The man was not fond of vindictiveness, and the irony of Bianchi's intended methods did seem to be far to close to that of a Court of sharp-toothed creatures. There were people who did not balk at such excess cruelty, his colleagues among them, but Bianchi was not so—there was a great difference between the imagination of an act, shaped by stories, and the execution—the girl could do the former, but not the latter.

Rinsing a washcloth, he scrubbed the surfaces down. After Bianchi succeeded, she would still need a guardian, for Hayato if nothing else. And he had an inkling of who to seek. Debt. Care. Love. Such things combined made for a potent combination.

Turmeric wrinkled his nose. Even if that man required a miraculous revelation on proper conduct when faced with women—encounters with Oregano and Lal having failed to impress his failings onto him—Trident Shamal was honorable, as far as Mafia men went. Powerful too, which was no less essential, given the situation.

He went upstairs. Oregano raised an eyebrow at his frown. "What's the matter?"

"Shamal."

"Daemon's taken quite a shine to Bianchi."

"That is…"

"His comeuppance." Oregano smirked, "I may not have planned it, but it's coming together wonderfully—woe onto others via the 666, possibly. Don't worry, Shamal will still be functional afterwards."

* * *

"This one needs to learn Primo's techniques." I announced to sir as he trudged through his workload while I kept him there by the power of my gaze—he would run away otherwise.

"What?!" Sir tried to overturn his coffee with his flailing. I held it hostage. "But Basil, those are Sky techniques!"

"This one researched the Young Master's condition." I revealed placidly, "All the theory involved has been committed to memory. Yet this one has no experience with the practical. This one suspects that it would be easier to replicate Giotto's techniques with Sky Flames, followed by altering the known base to find Rain variants."

Sir reached across his desk to ruffle my hair, overturning the stack of files in his inbox, "Shishou is very happy that you want to learn lots of fun things, Basil-kun! But Tuna-fishy's problem is very big!"

I waited for him to continue. "Intuition is very loud, Basil-kun! And that's a problem too! It's going to be very hard to figure out how to help Tuna-fishy without making the problem worse!"

23\. The number _clicked_ into my thoughts. I set my face, "This one has committed."

"Are you sure?" Sir leaned forward, pushing the mug he was using as a pen-holder off the desk, sending the writing implements rolling into the inaccessible crevices created by the furniture.

22\. "Yes." I confirmed seriously, though the effect was quite ruined by me trying to reach into the dusty crevice between the sofa and the bookshelf. So the number was a countdown… of the 666 perhaps?

He grinned and rolled his chair back (it was a spinning chair), making sure not to cap his pen, "Come on then! To the training rooms!"

I sneezed from the dust, then followed him with a skip.

**Full disclosure, I didn't see the Hansel and Gretel/Hayato and Bianchi parallels until they started writing themselves. There's also the line in Wikipedia of how some versions have the stepmother and the witch being symbolically the same person. Bianchi's mother is therefore the witch and stepmother in the sense of wanting to kill her stepson. Her father is the witch in the sense of forcing Bianchi to feed her brother to fatten him/hurt him. Oh, and Turmeric's aro/pansexual. Oma's true love is perfectly effective for any evil curses, thank you very much.**

**Basil's Chigiri problems include not realizing people get traumatized when they kill people in a brutally drawn-out fashion, or that you don't kill your parents without getting issues (she didn't).**

**And then Iemitsu. Ah, Iemitsu. Who knows whether he's speaking from personal experience or trying to convince himself that what Ninth did was for the best? He doesn't know, he's a mess of contradicting instincts.**


	28. Chapter 28

One of the many things I had been forced to acclimate myself to in my short half-year in the mafia's employ was the shocking rudeness towards women. To many others too, but women were the relevant group at the moment.

Turmeric was warily transposing himself between Bianchi and our guest, although to whose benefit was uncertain. I was present as moral support. Shamal hadn't noticed me. Typical.

"This the big sis?" He asked Turmeric, then tossed Bianchi a wink, "I would have helped a lady as pretty of you even without lovely Lavina's memory. Give your new daddy a kiss?"

Bianchi pursed her lips, tense as a bowstring. She didn't want to, obviously, but antagonizing Shamal was unwise. I laid a supportive hand on hers. She narrowed her eyes, "In your nightmares, Trident."

"Oooh, you're a spitfire." Shamal grinned, "You'll have to leave the beating boys off to me—otherwise they'll just come back for more." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Bianchi made a face.

"Enough, Shamal." Turmeric interrupted, "We're here to negotiate your responsibilities in the event of premature parent death."

Shamal shrugged, "You said as much in your letter, CEDEF. But I'd only be responsible for Lavina's boy. Miss Bianchi, no matter how good-looking she is, isn't my business, so don't think I haven't noticed that she's here while little Hayato isn't." He rested his chin on his interlaced fingers, "Now, own up, what do you really want?"

"That's classified, I'm afraid." Turmeric replied, "All we need from you is your cooperation in properly defining your duties as Hayato's godfather."

The lecher groaned at his tone, "Come on, it was just one time! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to poach your girl and you gave me _Frostbite Disease _for it—honestly, let it go!"

"You still haven't worked out who you should be apologizing to." Turmeric smiled affably, "But I agree that we are wasting time. Let us move back on topic. Tea? It's one of the siblings' favorite blends."

"Hell no." Shamal shuddered, "I'm not accepting anything from your side of the table. Your concoctions are enough, rumor has it that Miss Bianchi is a Poison Cooker too."

"I am." Bianchi crossed her arms, "Is that going to be a problem?"

"Nope." He held his hands up, conciliatory, "No objections here, but I'm not letting you cook for me."

"Lucky you, I'm not going to live with you anyway." Bianchi shoved the contract at him, "Take care of my little brother, teach him how to fight, don't risk his life or health, and don't use him for womanizing."

Shamal raised an eyebrow as he read. "Monthly reports? I hate paperwork. Receipt-based reimbursement? You do know that the cosa nostra doesn't like leaving a paper trail, do you? Oooh, mental health, physical health, complete medical records—congrats on including mental health, girl, and sorry, but you're pretty much assimilated into the paper-pushing brigade if you have Opinions on your little brother not going cray-cray. Also, I'm hurt. You do know that I'm probably going to use a few of my top-secret mosquitos on your little brother and that you're trying to make me reveal them? Why can't you be a nice young lady and just tell me to discharge my duty as Hayato's godfather? Why contracts?"

"Given regrettable past incidents, I feel the need for more assurance than your word." Turmeric offered Shamal a pen tip-first, while smiling warmly. Was that the equivalent of pointing a knife at someone? The warmth was his default state—he always excluded an air of homeliness—so I ignored the dissonance. "This is what I believe to be the least objectionable option. Of course, if you feel differently, we are willing to be accommodating."

"Projecting, aren't we?" Shamal asked, ignoring the pen, "Just because the Young Lion has a questionable sense of…well, everything, doesn't mean we all do. And what is this more objectionable option?"

"_Shishou keeps his word to the letter!_" I hissed at him furiously.

Gratifyingly, he leapt backwards, a mosquito capsule already open. I flared Rain Flames over my skin in defense as I watched for the deadly vector. The Trident snapped the capsule back shut, once again containing the insect. He watched me warily as he scooted back to the table.

"You're the new bite sized demon, I take it? —calm down kid, I'm not insulting Papa Lion—if you're here, probably as a witness, then let me guess—it's a kiss isn't it? A kiss to seal the deal. Can we do that? A kiss from a pretty lady like Bianchi here's definitely less of a nightmare than CEDEF contracts."

"Tough luck." Bianchi leaned back in her seat, arms crossed over her chest.

Shamal groaned, "And I really don't want to kiss Wormwood here, and demon is a kid, so fine."

"You could give me what remains of your name, Shamal." Turmeric observed mildly.

The freelancer recoiled in horror, "Fuck no! Wait a second—can you actually do that? Nevermind, hand that pen over, let's get on with it."

* * *

Coffee break coincided neatly with Iruka's lunchtime. Bianchi wanted to see my fabled dolphin, and Turmeric was obliged to keep an eye on her. As a result, our whole group headed to Iruka's pool, which now included sand, corals, and sponges. Some were contributions by fellow CEDEF agents (honestly, tending to our resident mascot had become group stress relief at this point), but some had just appeared, quite inexplicably.

Daemon was already at the edge, feeding Iruka from a bucket and occasionally animating one of the fish. Shock from our guest. "Who's that?"

"Salt." Lal had been sitting by the pool as well. "Once, he was worth his weight in gold, nowadays he's just cheap white powder."

Daemon opened his mouth. Shut it. Opened it again, "Seriously?"

Shamal continued to stare. "Do you know what happens when you expose an animal to too much flames?"

Daemon stretched lazily, emptying the bucket into the water and adding a few extra with his Flames besides, "Of course I do. You use Mist-fed mosquitos to carry diseases, Cavallone horses never buck a rightful rider, Reborn's rumored to have beetle surveillance devices. The more altered the food, the more Flame replaces flesh. Unlike those dumb creatures the rest of the mafia tend though, Iruka's intelligent enough that he can become Active himself with just a little help."

"There's a reason Flame Animal Husbandry doesn't deal with smarter species!" Shamal shot back, "A dolphin—you do know that they're sex maniacs?"

"Look at who's talking, Pot." Lal snorted. "Is the contract signed yet? I'm the one sealing it and I don't have the time to waste waiting around."

"Aww, not Oregano?" Shamal asked, apparently falling back on sleazing to hide his panic, "Y'know, I came so quickly because I wanted to kiss the legend. Copper for a kiss—c'mon, I'm owed that for all the hassle you're going to put me through!"

Turmeric jerked Bianchi out of the way. I dove into the pool. Daemon was looming in front of Shamal, Flame hazing the air about him and Killing Intent palpable in the air. "I am curious," He hissed, lifting the other man by the neck, "Do you think these jokes amusing, or are you even denser than that?"

"[Boneless-Food-Giver] is scary." Iruka commented with a series of clicks and whistles.

I agreed. On land, Shamal was scrabbling at his throat, struggling to breath.

Turmeric intervened, "Salt, let him down."

Daemon turned towards him, his face hazy the way it went right before transforming into some sort of eldritch horror.

"He can't answer you like that." Turmeric reminded Daemon calmly.

Daemon made a contemptuous noise, but threw his victim onto the floor. He looked down, "Well, your answer?"

"Sorry!" Shamal coughed from his bruised throat, "Didn't mean to offend you. It's force of habit."

A flash of disgust crossed Turmeric's face.

Daemon pressed down onto the doctor's groin with a boot-tip. Just, _why_? "I suggest you unlearn that habit then, Trident Shamal. If you cannot comprehend why you should, then let this suffice: failure to do so independently will be understood as an invitation for _me_ to see whether an old dog can learn new tricks."

Whirling on his other heel, our resident ghost gave Turmeric a brisk nod, "You have my respect for not killing him. Call me if he's still on the premises in ten minutes."

He then bowed to Bianchi—a courtly bow at that, "If you feel yourself wishing for a palate cleanser, may I suggest the recreational library? It has quite a selection of classics in various languages—there is a translation of _the Count of Monte Cristo_ that is my particular favorite. It is my hope that it might prove to be of value to you as well, Miss Bianchi."

"I'll look into it later, thanks."

* * *

Salt's intervention did speed everything up. Shamal signed, then wobbled out the door, letting out pained noises every other step, "The worst thing is, I'd be seriously up for it if Salt was…" The shadows darkened menacingly, "Not so pantswettinglyterrifyingbye!" He squeaked.

"I want to grow up to be Salt." Bianchi sighed dreamily, "And have boys look up at me with fear in their eyes."

"With or without the BDSM aspect?" I asked.

Bianchi sighed, "I'm not sure yet."

"Take your time." Turmeric advised.

**The other joke is that Daemon is a ghost, ergo bodiless=weightless, so Lal can also be interpreted as saying that he was originally worthless, and has improved to become very cheap instead.**

**Also, Turmeric has a reputation for lying around, ladies consider him the ideal one-night-stand partner. Sometimes uses this reputation as a cover to get drunk partygoers home safe. **


	29. Chapter 29

Metallic thread knitted into fine lace, covering madder red and pomegranate yellow. The yarn of the elbow-length gloves had been stained a familiar rust-red, but patches of the original dye still remained.

Oregano raised an eyebrow as she examined the contents of the laundry hamper in my arms, "So you kept fidelity to the 'gauntlet' part of 'throwing down the gauntlet', but ignored the 'throwing'?"

Turmeric winced, "The alternative would have been dismissing both parts of the statement as metaphorical. However, the gauntlet was taken up, which meant that the challenge was accepted. On purpose or not, if the action can be misconstrued, it will be—and Basil, that applies to us too, so watch yourself."

"This one doubts that this one could forget the consequences of the old don picking up his daughter's glove." I examined the bloody clothing, remembering grossly mutated and acid-eaten corpses. Bianchi's Poison Cooking had been brutal, and, more than that, thorough.

"There is death, and there is destruction. Bianchi's vengeance was the stuff of epics." _15_. I saw the concerned looks on the older agents' faces. Oops, in keeping the admiring note out of my voice, I had accidentally gone too far in the other direction. "Not _nightmares_," I wrinkled my nose, emphasizing my childish indignation, "This one won't suffer disturbed dreams from witnessing the _aftermath_ of violence, but Bianchi was not yet blooded when she killed her parents—therein lies thy greatest concern—with her, not this one!"

"I've already done everything I could for Bianchi." Turmeric said, "And I presume you've explained the situation to Hayato?"

"Yes." I confirmed. The boy had taken the reality of his parents' executions surprisingly well (meaning, of course, better than Utakata), and had accepted the task of keeping his sister from sleeping too soon. I had left him more of Turmeric's mint-and-lemon tea mix before I had been forced to leave by swarming Family members.

Regarding the tea: Some might think that it's better to be given something soothing as you come down the adrenaline high—warm milk or chamomile being the obvious options, being excellent for nudging an exhausted soul over the borders of sleep—but dealing with first kills was different, even when a mess of familial complications hadn't been thrown into the mix. Sleep solidified memories and deepened the mark of trauma, and while Bianchi no doubt needed rest, slumber come too soon would be the opposite of restful. Ergo, mint tea, slightly bracing but without the energy of caffeine, to tide her over while she processed her parricide. With the help of...

"Is Shamal reliable?" I asked. He reminded me of the Toad Sennin, which was not a mark against him, except that it was.

Oregano grunted, "As much as I want to say otherwise, he's as good as he is perverted. He's taken a few students in his day too, meaning he's got experience. Better than us—we've never had a problem with killing, so we keep forgetting there is one."

"Ah." I grimaced, "This one was unaware."

"You know now." The Cloud answered briskly, "Now, get the gloves to Cleaning before the bloodstains set."

_14_. The countdown in my mind clicked once more. I had sidestepped a few incidents, but alas, it seemed that my apprentice-brother's creations would be permanently altered.

Given the delicacy of the situation, there was no point in worrying over the other Family's affairs, what with our inability to intervene. In response, I shifted my focus to other projects instead.

* * *

Flame was not chakra, not a neat even mix of physical and spiritual energy, but rather a single force heavily skewed towards the spiritual side of things. That made filtering out the physical component far more difficult—not impossible, given that Giotto had done it, but still, I was not looking forward to progressing from the basic Zero Point Breakthrough—speaking of which, ow. It was extraordinarily painful to cast, and worse than that, casting it went against every engrained instinct one had, akin to forcing oneself to breath water.

Just like breathing water, I coughed out substances that did not belong in my lungs.

"Aww! My little basilisk is turning into a dragon!" Sir ruffled my hair. _8_. I ignored him as I focused on expelling the altered Flame before my lungs froze. On the ground before me, crystals formed where spurts of bluebell flames had passed.

I wheezed, and was then interrupted by another fit of hacking coughs. Beneath me, clear quartz turned into garnets.

Oops. Beside me, not beneath. Cold. I was shivering. I was helped upright. Pressure against my lips. Hot chocolate.

The hot drink warmed me, and my trembling gradually slowed to a stop. "This one was unaware that hypothermia could be a side effect."

"Well, Basil-kun." Sir said cheerfully, a lick of orange warming the air about me, "You're the first Rain to try Zero Point! There're bound to be a lot of surprises!"

None of them pleasant. My airways felt raw and bloody, like that time the Estraneos had used some form of gas in their defenses.

"Smile, Basil-kun! You've almost gotten it!" Sir pointed at the iridescent red ice on the floor, "See, it's not melting!"

That would explain the severity of my injuries. On the bright side, my reserves were not yet dry! "Once more." I mumbled through a swollen tongue.

"A manly choice!" Sir clapped me on the back, provoking another coughing fit.

Shakily, I brought my fingers into the Tiger Seal for fire and flame, then the mythical Dragon for that which did not exist to revere it, and finally to the Rat Seal for spiritual yin. My Matatabi was forced into unnatural contortions, burning inexistent coils with phantom pain, and I forced heat to reverse.

Rain's Tranquility made it a cold flame, and compelling it to become ice saw a shard of black unlight form above my hands, suspended in the air as if weightless, and then shatter into frigid powder that leeched all warmth from the world.

I closed my eyes and collapsed on the floor once more.

"You did it, Basil!" Sir congratulated as he swept up the Zero Point dust.

"And yet twas not the crystalline prison of thy creation." I objected.

"You did everything perfectly, but you aren't a Sky! There's bound to be differences!" Sir helped me up, "Now, time-out for you, Flame Exhaustion is bad for kids, even if Lal turned out alright!"

"Understood." I brightened, "It is time for dinner, is it not? Turmeric promised _Krustenbraten_!"

Crisp skin and a rich bite of fat between the crackling and the meat, drizzled with gravy and paired with some form of Knödel, it was my favorite until such times as I started to crave something drenched in tomato sauce again. I could almost feel the _crunch_ of the pork between my teeth, hearty and perfect for the end of a productive day.

* * *

After managing Zero Point, I figured out the spiritual version of the technique without too much mishap. However, by my reckoning, I'd turn anyone I tried to Seal so into a vegetable. Fortunately, what I sought was understanding, and understanding I had acquired: lain into Misty ink, the Seal had resolved itself into lines upon lines of Latin, arranged in interlocking circles and squares and pentagons and pentacles.

And therein lay the problem. I did not speak Latin—on the other hand, someone who had joined us recently _did_.

"That's not how you translate it! _In thee the Gods have fixed their __dwelling__ place, strong, stable basis of the mortal race. _In the names of all things holy, brat, that abomination you transcribed loses all the nuance of the original text!"

"As with the evocations to Prometheus, this one set down thy words as thou spoke them." I looked up at Daemon, "Thus can this one but beg for better instruction."

Daemon growled, "Youth these days, you have no respect for your elders and are not taught to any appreciable standard. Why do you not know Latin, pray tell? You are the heir to a venerable institution, and yet your education as a gentleman is sorely lacking! _Asinus ad lyram. _I _despair_ of the future!"

I hummed and noted down his revisions and made my annotations.

I had the shape of it now, the evocations to Prometheus who brought Flame to mankind and bore a Ring as a bond, and also the hymns to Hestia of the Hearth, although she was more often worshipped in her Roman form, the Temple of Vesta yet maintained in Rome, with seven Flame Actives composing a Harmony of Vestal Virgins.

Harmony and Preservation, paired themes, the first to connect to the subject, the second to keep their flames in stasis. Break the latter, and the former would have the remains be subsumed into the subject's own Flames.

The lack of Dying Will Bullets closed off the brute-force approach, so I needed to unpick the parts. Easy enough. Well, easy enough if I was willing to ignore the…erm…side effects. Preservation was by definition temporary, for nothing lasted forever. Therefore, I could, theoretically, invoke the transient nature of Preservation through the concept of _Mujo, _无常, inconstancy, but inconstancy was, as the word indicated, inconstant. The effects of applying it to the seal might be exactly what I wanted, or it might be as inimical to the Young Master's health as forcefully mutating him through exposure to radiation.

Another approach would be interrogating the idea of preservation and reinterpreting it to be incompatible with harmony. And for that, a dictionary would be useful.

A Latin dictionary.

Ugh.

_4_. Indicated my Ring as I realized my misfortune. I bared my teeth at empty air in vicious challenge. Now that the parameters were set, all I needed to do was see this through. "Daemon, this one begs further aid in this matter."

The ghost settled down opposite me with a sigh, "Given your manner, I shall assent. Come now, foul imp, beleaguer me with inane questions that you should know the answers to."

I smiled and dipped my pen.

* * *

I presented my creation to shishou two days later, at the tail end of a meeting, having reverse-engineered my counter seal to create a technique that could, theoretically, be cast by a Sky.

He had recovered admirably from the shock of seeing me actually make good on my promise to unseal the Young Master, ruffling my hair and complimenting me on both my work ethic and my genius. Sir had been reading childcare books about not emphasizing intelligence as the sole reason for success, then.

"Good job Basil!" Sir pushed a fist towards me. His body language kept me from interpreting it as an attack, but I didn't know what else I could do about it. Sir drooped, then used that hand to scratch the back of his head, "Hehehe, you were supposed to fist bump me, like a high-five. Try again?"

I nodded with an open grin, "Yessir!"

We fistbumped.

Then sir's expression fell, "You did super, Basil! But there's a reason that Skies don't go Active too young! Look at Xanxus, look at Federico, look at your dear old shishou! We're all super weird, and it's all because of our Flames!"

"The Young Master is an Active, Vongola Sky." I said slowly, "The property of Sky Flames is Harmonization. The virtue of the Vongola line is its Hyper Intuition, which is born from a harmonization with the environment that allows for near-precognitive awareness of danger."

"Not just near-precognitive." Lal said bluntly, "Vongola Intuition imparts a set of instincts and impulses. For the Eighth, it kept her and her people three steps ahead of the Nazis at all times. For Ninth, it's stocks and HR. Xanxus has always been far too aware of threats and is aggressive as a result. Federico was also too sensitive, but he turned soft instead. Iemitsu's from Giotto's line, so the Intuition even stronger than usual, and it makes him recklessly impulsive."

"I always know it'll turn out well, Lal!" Sir protested, "I'm confident because I'm always right!"

"That is news." Oregano tapped a finger against the arm of her chair. "Shall we take it to mean that your 'good feelings' are more than that?"

"Yep!" Sir scratched his head awkwardly, "I got one for you and Turmeric too, so don't be mad...?"

"I have grown used to the lack of logic in your thinking." My apprentice-sister shrugged, "And have recognized that your hunches are proven correct, more often than not. I would have appreciated an explanation instead of being forced to draw the conclusion from experience, but other than that? Congratulations, Basil, for finally getting our boss to cough up answers."

"Thank you."

Turmeric nodded in agreement, "I've always come in a package deal with Oregano. Hearing that you recruited me on my own merits? It's a pleasant surprise."

Iemitsu sighed, "It's loud. You'll be walking down the street and then want to take a turn down the alleyway just to see a dealer trying to push his product on a teen. It'll turn out to be cut with nasty stuff and then it'll be time to investigate. You'll throw a can of food into the trash only to learn later that it had come from a bad batch, or stock up on razors just before there's a shortage. You'll do weird things and not know why, and that's not even the _worst_ of it!"

"Chronic hyperawareness." I realized suddenly, even as I digested the genuinely prophetic nature of Vongola Hyper Intuition, "Harmonized with the environment, a powerful Sky is constantly aware of everything."

"It can be mitigated with training." Turmeric put in, frowning slightly, "But Basil's a special case when it comes to control. A six-year-old—even a seven-year-old, would not have close to enough."

"A buffer." Oregano narrowed her eyes in thought, "Lemongrass has experience with sensory overload. We can consult with him for mitigating strategies. All else fails we make the house a sanctuary and pay the Autumn Rain to maintain it."

"Not possible." Lal cut in, "The Autumn Rain's wife's dead because of the Vongola. Man's stressed enough caring for his own to help with someone else. And why the fuck would we let a freelancer that close?"

"That's why I said last resort." Oregano replied, still looking thoughtful.

Sir held up a hand, "Turmeric, any ideas?"

The man furrowed his brow, considering, "I could ask Oma. If she can't help, Baba will or know someone who can."

"Undoing Nono's work." Sawada Iemitsu looked us all in the eye, one by one, "There's no going back from that."

"Only if he finds out—"

"—Coverups are possible."

Lal and I said at the same time. Lal raised an impressed eyebrow.

"Still." Turmeric intoned softly, "We're going forward."

"Seconded." Oregano added evenly.

Sky and Seal were both had, but now we needed Silence for Sawada Tsunayoshi's peace.

At least we were all united—oh no.

Apart from Daemon.

"Should Daemon Spade be read in?" I asked.

Turmeric sighed and went to put the kettle on, and we settled in for another extension of our meeting.

At least there were snacks.


	30. Chapter 30

Naturally, despite our extracurricular activities, the CEDEF upper command still had to do their jobs.

Turmeric disappeared into the depths of HR, checking backgrounds and sweettalking the occasional infiltrator into turning and joining us for real. The recruits were then turned over to Lal, who put them through boot camp derived from COMSUBIN training practices that was turned up to eleven for Flame Actives. (I shuddered at the memory of all the sit-ups she had made me do.)

Oregano, true to her word, had begun working with Lemongrass, ostensibly for the purpose of tracking down every weapon from our armories—it wouldn't do for the police to get a hold on us from tracing literal smoking guns, let alone discover Flame weaponry. She also oversaw the intelligence analysis efforts, which were augmented by algorithms that were incomprehensible to me even before Flames got involved.

In contrast, my responsibilities lay in our perennial duties: shadowing sir as he liaised with the Family, herding him to his desk whenever he tried to escape the really _really_ _really_ essential paperwork, and, my favorite, eavesdropping.

* * *

Given my easily dismissed nature, all I had to do was switch out the blue in my clothes for black or white, shrug on a cheaper suit, and find a dull manual to occupy my hands with in order to melt into the furniture and eavesdrop on middle-aged men who were depressingly unobservant. Honestly, were it not for our security measures keeping most spies _out_, no information would ever be kept _in_.

"The Ninth's old enough to retire." Ooh, that was _dangerous_—not treasonous yet, but close.

"The new Heir is old enough to Inherit." The other agreed, "Enrico's distinguished himself well against the Estraneo Remnant and the traitor families, showed strong leadership. We'll need that in these times, what with all the New Blood and Foreigners. I can stomach the ones from the Mainland, they may not be Sicilian but they're still Italian, they understand Tradition, and Culture, and Mafia Law. But Americans? Guns. Guns. Dollars, and more guns. I don't want my daughter marrying one of those—and even they are better than the yellowskins—all new ideas and prettyboys, no men's honor in them at all."

"Can you believe that?" I didn't react, obviously, but they had to be foolish indeed to ignore Sawada Iemitsu's apprentice when they were speaking ill of him, "They don't have religion—they don't know God—don't recognize Christ our Savior. How can we trust a Godless man—and yet Don Timoteo gives Sawada Iemitsu free reign as the Commander of the CEDEF!"

"My friend, I can not disagree with you. Although the Young Lion claims to support the Vongola, look at his Heir: a street boy too young to succeed him—I suspect that he will attempt to leverage the boy's youth to go against Tradition, like Septimo's Spada, or use it to keep Ninth on the throne longer."

"We could press—he has other apprentices—Enrico has a strong hand; he will not need a strong Consigliere too much."

"Which other would you have? The German, or the woman? Ottava is a Legend for a reason, and she was supported by the strongest CEDEF Commander since Alaude himself—the woman is not half the leader she was, and cares even less about Tradition than the foreigners!"

Now, this was _fun_. Oregano considered most forms of social niceties to infringe upon her Territory, and so treated exhortations to smile along the same lines as most Clouds did encroachments upon their chosen dominion. It was not really a problem within the CEDEF, since we kept politicking to a minimum and came closer to a meritocracy than most of the Underworld, but somehow, idiots from outside it had turned it into a challenge called _Tempt the Virgin_. Most tried once before being taught the error of their ways, while Lal took great pleasure in breaking in the persistent but salvageable ones.

I was quite certain that my apprentice-sister would be _quite interested_ in what these lovely gentlemen were talking about, even if she did dislike leadership and all the people managing it entailed. At this point, they had implied intent to dispose the ninth, interfere with the CEDEF, and sabotage our current policies. Any of them was grounds for investigation, not that we needed an excuse. Had they but mentioned a plan, I would have been well within my rights to subdue them and tear open their minds. Luckily for them, they weren't that arrogant yet, so I simply made note of their names and faces for the machinery of the CEDEF to process.

* * *

More conversations cropped up, "Massimo is surprisingly dedicated, if still too blunt for intelligence."

"But he is Blood—Family, the Vongola's strength has always been in the power and bonds of blood. The point of the CEDEF commander is to be trusted, and who can Enrico trust, if not his brothers?"

"The Young Lion keeps stonewalling about his Heir—it is unseemly, he was chosen because he was a Sky, he can not deny the opportunity to another Sky."

"When has the Young Lion cared about Tradition? However, the Rain's rumored to already be Harmonized, and Massimo still lacks a Cloud and a Sun—fit the trio in, and you get most of a Sette too. Things already slotted into place when the Varia Rain harmonized with Xanxus instead of Cavallone, having the third brother head the third branch is just good sense."

More murmurings about Massimo taking the CEDEF, which was the only foolproof way to remove him from the line of succession, apart from killing him. Marrying him into another family could also do that, but it was far from foolproof and the Vongola would almost never allow its bloodline to branch. From what I had read, Active Sky daughters were usually sent to become Vestals.

But really, was me being CEDEF tenth so difficult to stomach? I was willing to act as Éminence Grise should circumstances demand it, but bowing to Massimo was just too great an insult for me to suffer-unless, of course, that he was made into a puppet. Unfortunately, Daemon had not yet gotten around to teaching me those kinjutsu, so I could only enjoy unrealistic fantasies.

I continued to make notes in my lovely four-ring binder.

* * *

"Poor, poor Basilicum." Mukuro drawled into my ear, "Doing the work of a grownup and never getting to rest. Is it fun, to be treated as you are even when no one knows _what_ you are?"

He was invisible, and, from how I could not feel even the barest of vibrations from his voice, using an illusion instead of actually talking. An amateur lack of attention to detail.

"Is it not more distressing, to be babied when thou hast seen things that would break grown men?" I murmured back, "Speakest thou out of a desire for more meaningful work? This one possesses divers, and would welcome thine aid."

I felt his weight settle against my side, the leaning in and seeking of warmth a suggestion of skin hunger, but the sort tempered by a fear of restraints into a preference for contact that did not confine. I did not acknowledge it, because we were similar enough when it came to showing weakness, but shifted to allow him a more comfortable position.

"Ken and Chikusa's ears are sharp." He informed me with a touch of arrogant pride, "It will, of course, be difficult for us to meet up regularly, given the differences in our schedules, but I can establish a Mist Link if you are amenable."

_2_. The 666 nudged subtly at my mind, warning me of a crossroads and danger. I smiled at the Mist behind the curtain of my hair, "No need, Mukuro, for which of us has time to spare? This one was under the impression that thine preference was to be as a man grown treated, and what marks adulthood more clearly than trading crayons and coloring books for black ink and white paper?"

"Very well, Basilicum. I shall see the reports within your inbox—for a price, of course. What say you, to a secret of the mansion? I would so dearly like to see my future Sky for myself."

"Seekst thou the hearthflame so, Mukuro?" I asked, "As to fly as a moth to the first Flame you meet?"

_1\. I said too much_. I assumed that he sought Harmony when he could have only been looking to see the future Don Vongola.

"Perhaps." Mukuro projected the impression of yawning, "I am rather curious about what indeed drives men to forsake their old selves for the new, and be a drop in the tides of nations. It must be a sweet siren song indeed, to hold legions in its sway."

* * *

One would have assumed the brightly lit world of shining glass would have no space for the magic of the world, but light of the sun lacked the power to purify, its rays never shattering the gloom which gathered in the dark alleyways just a wrong turn away, only baking the fetid stink of the slums to an unbearable stench. Predators did stalk in the shadows—there was a reason people spoke of steel and concrete jungles. For the poor, the starving, and the sickly; the greedy, the hungry, the perverse; it was a jungle. Prey hid, predators hunted. Survival was the highest priority. And yet there were exquisitely human elements to the bare-bones brutality. Hope. Compassion. Despair. Sadism. They resonated through the world of science and reason into the one of myths and legends, and thus, doorways were formed for those who knew how to look.

The man known as Turmeric spied the tell-tale flash of silver around the corner. Hastening his steps, the witch's grandson chased after it to come face to snout with a giant wolf, its lamp-like eyes shining in the afternoon sunlight.

"Großvater Wolfe. Wie geht's Ihnen?"

"Gut." The wolf rumbled, "Deine Oma worries after thee, for thou hast chosen a cause."

"It was inevitable, Großvater." Turmeric sighed, "I knew it when I went out of the woods of Oma. Seven generations and three. History does like its round numbers for rejuvenation and return, and the weight of this has only been made greater by being a cornerstone of the world."

"And yet you care far more fiercely than is needed." The wolf observed.

"Fate only ensures the broad strokes, the cloth and the cut, but not the sewing." Turmeric reminded him, "Cracks must grow into valleys for it to take notice. It falls to people to shore them up before then."

The wolf stretched, "And this Rightful Heir of thine is family, so I suppose we should feel fortunate that thou merely a role to the side and not on the center stage taken hast. But the Gingerbread Witch is more bound than thee."

The man groaned, "A price must be paid for her help. Yes, I understand."

The wolf chuffed, "Be not so aggrieved. All thine Oma asks is thine chosen family to meet, so as to see with whom her grandson has aligned."

* * *

I dropped the bomb with good cheer, "Mukuro now knows that this one expects him to Harmonize, and this one's ring has kindly offered the premonition that it would be folly great for one to touch his Flame."

"He'll have to know eventually." Lal pointed out pragmatically, "But given the ages involved, we have time."

"We'd be better served asking Daemon about the esoteric nature of Mukuro's Mist Flames." Oregano decided, "That needs to be pushed forwards, along with taking the training he offers. Lemongrass's mitigating techniques are more about surviving temporary forays into overstimulating environments, which wouldn't be easily mastered by a child, present company excluded, therefore, I advise that we save that avenue for when the cub's older."

"Good idea!" Sir grinned, "You are all so smart! Turmeric, I think you have something to add?"

"I may have a solution." Turmeric grimaced, "We're all overdue a vacation, but it'll require us taking a maximum of a week's leave of absence simultaneously while being under communications blackout."

"Absolute communications blackout?" I confirmed, "Or would it be possible for Daemon to relay information?"

"Absolute. My grandma's woods are all but impossible to get through without her permission, and she doesn't approve of mixing work and family."

"Then we have two problems. First is keeping the CEDEF running when none of high command is present; second is keeping this under wraps." Lal crossed her arms, "I can delegate my work to Jalapeno and Habanero, and Lemongrass can pick up some of Oregano's slack, but analysis isn't his forte while Turmeric doesn't have a second. We also need someone to do Iemitsu's work, just in case something unexpected pops up."

"Cinnamon and Star Anise can conduct interviews, while Coriander is capable enough at digesting intelligence—which leaves us with…"

Lal groaned, "Our only choice is Daemon, isn't it?"

"So far as this one knows, there exist no other alternatives." I tilted my head, "Salt is himself no trustworthy candidate, for all that this one cannot deny his proven competence."

Oregano snorted, "We'll probably come back to sexual harassment seminars being used as enhanced interrogation tools."

"I'd be more concerned about the disproportionate reprisals Spada was notorious for." The most empathic of our collection frowned, "If anything happens and Salt does respond, then we'd be stuck with quite a mess."

"It'll be okay." Sir waved a hand airily, "Besides, Timmy trusts me absolutely!" His face slid into a frown as if in a changing of theater masks, "He has done so ever since he sealed tuna-fishy."

It was the height of irony, for in demanding and receiving the loyalty that was his right, Ninth had lost it; my master had passed Don Vongola's test, and from that moment forth discarded that which he had been tested for. Such had been the nature of Kirigakure as well—we followed none but the worthy.

"His loss, and our gain." Oregano smiled sharply, "Then are we in accord? Salt, Cinnamon, Star Anise, Coriander, Lemongrass, Jalapeno, and Habanero will take over our work for however long Oma Hexe wishes to keep us."

A secret stolen from the side of a restless memory. A key forged by knowledge from another life kept. And now, a gift traded for with time and family.

"Yes." I agreed, along with my colleagues.


	31. Chapter 31

"Over the river and through the woods, to grandmother's house we go! The horse knows the way to carry the sleigh through the white and drifted snow!" Sir warbled, trying to get us to join in with wild and exaggerated gestures of the hand that wasn't on the steering wheel. Turmeric, seated in the front, had already surrendered, and was humming along while sketching some sort of circuitry.

"For fuck's sakes it's summer, stop singing fucking Christmas carols!" Lal snarled, kicking the back of the driver's seat.

I frowned, "The second stanza ends with _We would not stop for doll or top, for 'tis Thanksgiving Day. _Indicating that 'tis a song of autumn, not one of winter celebrations—but quoth sir, horrible and endless singing is considered a traditional ordeal of the quintessential road trip experience, along with excessively frequent inquiries as to whether or not we have reached our destination and overlong intervals between bathroom breaks."

"The point that it's not the season still stands." Oregano groaned from where she was sprawled in the third row of seats, "Please tell me someone packed earplugs, my carsickness is unpleasant enough as it is. And Basil, we've talked about this, every second sentence from Iemitsu's mouth is alternatively true, stop taking it as gospel."

"It isn't about paperwork…" I shaped my face to show exaggerated confusion, "And sir _only _lies about _paperwork!_" I held the expression for a few moments, then let it slip back to good cheer. "Surely sir would not deceive us, his dearest apprentices and allies?"

Turmeric laughed, "Emotional blackmail, Basil?"

"_This one_?" I asked, wide-eyed.

"Natural selection." Lal corrected with a smirk, "If they can't realize and resist, then they probably deserve it."

* * *

After the months of pressure and a truly gargantuan workload, our trip to Oma's was a relief I did not realize I needed. The Bloody Mist had taught me to bear pressure as tides bore the tug of the moon, yielding and shifting and unbroken, and so I had carried that attitude into this life, forgetting that it was quite unnecessary, until this point, when I let all my troubles go and focused on this _adventure_.

The setting sun slanted through our car's windows, warm rays bathing us in soothing orange-red; all of a sudden, the light was broken by the shapes trees marching past, reaching up with leafy boughs into the summer sky. Outside, dusk trailed its last wisps of red down into the horizon, and I could just discern sleek shadows in the gloaming, keeping apace with us despite the numbers displayed on the car's dash.

"They're just the family of my Großvater." Tumeric indicated the dark wolf-shapes, "Don't worry, boss, they're just here to welcome us home—also to make sure that we don't get lost."

"Your family is super cool!" Sir grinned, slightly wild-eyed, "Shouldn't you know the way though, Turmeric?"

Turmeric frowned, "The paths change. And I usually walk, so I take narrower ways—I didn't even know that there is a road."

"Well, lucky us!" Sir said cheerfully, "I wouldn't want to walk around with so much luggage!"

We had packed bolts of silk, clothes and toiletries, and some more things that I did not know about—overall, we had packed six or seven giant suitcases, and I did not want to think about dragging them through the undergrowth.

* * *

The woods opened into a small clearing, with a house of gingerbread and boiled-candy windows that had a tiny, plump old woman seated on a rocking chair by its door.

"Meine süße Kirschtorte!" She cried, setting her knitting aside to hurry over and pull Tumeric into her arms. "How are you? Have you been eating well? Of course not, poor boy, you've been working yourself to the bone—come in, come in, your colleagues too, I've just taken the Schweinshaxen out of the oven, wash up and we'll eat—leave the car, Caramel and Quiche will deal with that!"

I eagerly jumped out of the car after Oregano, stretching stiff limbs, and leapt out of the way of a pair of_ gingerbread men_. Sir and Lal were rather motivated to get out of the way too, given that even Bianchi's worst creations didn't have eyes and oversized mouths—or superhuman speed.

Oma directed us to the kitchen, which had a surprisingly modern sink where we freshened up before seating ourselves at the set table. We each got a plate with balls of potato dumplings, sauerkraut, and a pig haunch with crisp crackling skin, drizzled in a thick gravy. Delicious.

For the first few minutes, the silence about the table was only broken by the clinking of cutlery. Once the pace slowed down, Oma cackled, "How does my cooking compare to my grandson's?"

Trick question. Evil trick question. She was _awesome_.

Sir snapped first, "It's super good, hahaha! Your family has some great cooks—I mean that you're one too!"

"Which one's better?" Oma pressed with glee.

"Ahh…" He sweated, then seemed to stumble on a flash of inspiration, "My Wife!~*~*! My lovely wife's cooking is the best! She makes the most delicious salads and tamagoyaki and udon and ramen and drumsticks and everything! Her tamagoyaki is super soft and sweet and not burned at all, and her cucumber slices are always the perfect thickness for crunching, not too thin and not too thick, plus her ramen is better than anything you can buy in the stores, nothing at all like that nasty instant ramen that just has weird looking noodles and not enough toppings, it also has a thick broth that is super rich because she puts a tiny pat of butter into it just before serving and also soft-boiled tea eggs that taste super and look so pretty!—"

"—Just shut up about your wife." Lal grumbled, "Ma'am, your dumplings are fluffier, and don't stick to the teeth, so I like your cooking better—I like less acidic sauerkraut too."

"That's just because Oma's teeth are getting worse." Turmeric commented dryly.

"Your roasts are also crisper." Oregano defended, "And although your cooking is good, Oma, Turmeric knows my tastes better—I'm siding with him."

All eyes turned to me, even the candy ones of the gingerbread helpers. I smiled sunnily on the automatic, "Thou art verily among the masters of the kitchen, Oma! Yet this one cannot judge when the contestants are so different!" I then sniffed hopefully at the air and turned puppy-dog eyes on Oma, "Perhaps experiencing dessert would help this one decided?"

Oma cackled, "Let's see!"

* * *

She had made a lemon meringue tart. It was sour and sweet and redolent with the fragrance of citrus, bursting upon the tongue with the scent of a sunny day.

Naturally, I widened hurt eyes at my apprentice-brother, "Thou hast never yet made such a delicacy."

"I have work." He pointed out, quite reasonably, "And I made you snow pear and rock sugar soup."

"Bah! You just think it's too fancy." Oma snorted, "When the lemons in Italia are fare nicer than the ones we have here. And did you think to send any to me? No! Too caught up in your job to think about your poor, lonely Oma."

"Any deliverymen who manage to find the forest would get eaten." Turmeric snorted, "And you're the farthest thing from poor and lonely."

"Is that a bad thing?" Oma cackled, "There are only so many Jehovah's Witnesses that I can eat! And that's not an excuse for neglecting me—tell me all about your little problems."

Keeping us from resting and regaining the energy to keep our guards up. Clever.

Lal and Turmeric exchanged a look.

"It's past Basil's bedtime." She cut in, "Let's send the kid to bed and then bring out the drinks."

"Alas! Woe!" my mouth stretched wider into a yawn at the last syllable.

And so, I was sent off to bed.

* * *

The next day had everyone acting supremely sketchy.

Oregano practically shoved me out of the door with a basket in my hands with the orders to come back with trout and no directions to a suitable body of water, while Turmeric could be dimly heard yelling something about salt and sugar.

Oma was nowhere to be seen, while explosions out back denoted Lal's presence—why was she detonating things from a distance? I blinked at the locked spun-sugar door, "Oregano?"

I understood the point of operational security and classified information, but there was no reason for me to be cut out of the loop—unless I was believed compromised. But nothing that could have put me under suspicion had had happened.

It could have been that they were the ones under influence, but… inherent immunity aside, the last time I was the only one absent among us all was… last night, after I had gone to bed. However, Oma was presumably a friendly. I needed more information to make sense of the situation, preferably without showing that I was suspicious of anything.

In other words, off I went to find trout.

* * *

Trout were coldwater fish, found mostly in moving water.

Woodcraft led me to cut across the forest, seeking valleys where water may flow. I heard the rush of the stream before I saw it, a cheerful gurgling that sent waves of wet-earth smell into the air.

I had neither net nor rod for fishing, and I was _hungry_.

So I picked a sturdy pine and hauled myself up into its branches for breakfast while I looked for flashes of silver scales. The basket held—ooh! Nice!—sticks of fatty salami and a smoked salmon sandwich. A green apple too!

"Willt thou share thy bounty, newcomer?"

It was a wolf, tall as a man, amber-eyed and grey-furred and—so very fluffy.

"I would to one who I need not fear." I called down, guessing such beings were bound by their word.

The wolf chuffed, "Thou shalt not suffer the doom of Narfi, cub of the lion. Come down, I would speak with thee."

I dropped down, a touch of Tranquility burning away sound. "Please partake, stranger, though this is but meager fare."

"If thou callest the witch grandmother, then call me grandfather as well." Grandfather rumbled, giant muzzle delicately picking a salami from my breakfast, "I know not why the witch insists on preferring confectionery, when her savory offerings are so much more pleasing to eye and tongue."

I tactfully took a bite out of my sandwich.

Grandfather rested his head on his paws, "Knowest thou what fanning the flame of the clam would bring?"

"Challenge, but also the possibility of its overcoming." I pressed the fingers of my free hand together, as if readying an invisible senbon, "When before there was only despair."

"Nay, newcomer, the opposite would come to pass." Green motes of light swirled about the giant wolf, "Flame carries more than power—it carries soul and spirit and Will. The Flame of the Clam threads through past and present and future, and to ignite it is to allow what was and what will be hold over what is. We who are birthed of myth and legend may solve the mundane pain of a Sky awakened too young, but we are helpless against the weave of the Fates, and indeed, in aiding ye, may find ourselves drawn unwillingly under his Doom."

Grandfather sighed, "And a heavy Doom indeed. Forgotten ghosts awake, dead faces are seen anew, forsaken Wills are enacted; the World holds its breath at the change that will come to its foundations. Thou must needs forgive a grandfather for worrying for the fate of his grandson, in such a time of heroes."

"There is a Doom in the spin of the wheel of time, the cycling of events as what once was seeks to be again." I agreed, "And yet we are only of the now, and not of the then."

The apple was crisp and tart, bursting with fragrance and flavor, "The grand laid plans of gods and men have not the power to dictate our future. A choice was made, and this one shall pay the price it demands."

The wolf yawned, baring sharp fangs, "Such grand declarations. Fate is a promise that even after the harshest of winters, a gentle spring will come; to cut its weave gives hope for milder frosts, and yet also risks endless cold—many shall rage for being endangered so, for being forced to pay when they did not so choose, the Administrator not least among them."

I laughed with childish certainty in my invincibility, "Good sir, 'tis not unworrisome! But fear not! This one is certain that we shall all see a kind summer, of sweet fruit and fragrant grass and the trailing smoke of cookfires! —"

I dove where a flash of scales had caught my eye, manifesting a needle to spear the fish through, then surfaced with a shout, "A trout!"

Looking up at the giant carnivore, I grinned, "Dark tidings are best saved for darker days, Grandfather Wolf! Spoken beneath blue skies, they make us not grim, though thy warnings are heeded!"

I froze my prey in icy prisons, and tossed them for him to catch, gleefully slipping through the currents after rainbow tails.

"Thou wouldst be best served returning to shore." Grandfather huffed when my basket was filled to overflowing.

I sighed as I left the cool water, only to shriek as a giant maw descended on me and threw me onto the wolf's back, clutching his fur for dear life as we raced through the forest to the gingerbread house, the icing of which had all been switched to shades of blue with touches of lilac and lavender.

"Dare this one asks what has occurred?" I stared.

I felt the rumble of laughter beneath me, "Go see."

* * *

…

It was a celebration, with fireworks suspended in the air, bright blooms of colored sparks frozen in time, and on the table was a great multi-tiered cake iced in marzipan. Sir was sprawled on a pile of charred pinatas, empty flour bags, butter, _disarmed bombs_, multicolored paintball pellets that were probably to blame for the splashes of bright color, and at least five different types of feathers. I could smell the stink of alcohol even at this distance.

Lal was perched on a fruitcake cushion beside him and wielding a rolling pin, and opposite her sat Oregano, who held a series of candles, while Turmeric was taking my trout away into the kitchen. Oma was nowhere to be seen.

"This one hesitates to ask: what is the cause of this?" It would explain why I had been kicked out to not get in the way, but the secrecy?

"It's a birthday party." Lal informed me.

"Ah, this one understands." …there were three women here, Oregano, Lal, and Oma. Of the three, I immediately dismissed Oregano; Lal and Oma… Lal could be said to have raised all of us, but why this specific date? Oma, on the other hand, wasn't exactly a _mother_, but in the absence of Turmeric's mother, she could be who we celebrated for his birthday—it would even explain why he returned to the witch's woods at this time.

A realization struck me, "This one failed to prepare a present! Or would the trout be gift enough?"

"Why would you need to prepare a present?" Oregano asked with a frown, "Do you want a hobbit birthday? We can do that next year."

"Surely it is not this one's choice!" I protested, staring at the carnage in the corner, "What happened to sir?"

"Idiotmetsu tried to add in Vongola Style Flour throwing, Vongola Style Pinata hitting, Vongola Style butter smearing, Vongola Style Paintball and quite a few other bits of Main Family Madness to our party." Lal said darkly, "I educated him as to the error of his ways."

"By christening sir as one would a ship?" I asked, noting broken glass (or possibly sugar) scattered around the two.

"Took two bottles of champagne and one of beer." Lal glared, "But hopefully, it'll be enough."

Turmeric came back from the kitchen while Oma popped up behind the cake. "Time to celebrate, dearies!" She cackled, snapping her fingers for candles.

Oregano handed seven over, which Turmeric lit and stuck on the cake. Oma clicked her fingers, and the light went out, leaving the seven pin-pricks of red-yellow flame the only sources of illumination, apart from the sparks in the air. "Make a wish, Basil!" Sir warbled.

"Gladly." I agreed dubiously, climbing onto the solid oak table to reach the top of the cake.

_-Will be done._

The light came back.

"Time to cut the cake!" Oma grinned diabolically as she handed me a giant cleaver, hilt first, "Birthday boy!"

I took the knife numbly.

Birthday boy.

Me.

"Pardon this one's ignorance." I interrupted, "But, to confirm, this party celebrates _this_ one?"

"Who else?" Turmeric raised an eyebrow, "You're the only one whose birthday is on the sixth of June."

"Pa—"

The cleaver dragged my hand down. I bit down a yelp as it sank into the wooden support underneath the cake, parting the behemoth to reveal layers of pale gold and deep, dark brown-black, and red, and warmer brown—cheesecake, black forest, red velvet, and apple.

BOOM!

The cake erupted, lemon curd and cherry syrup bursting from the top in an impressively real explosion, the cloud of icing sugar hiding…live starlings?

"Iemitsu!" Oregano growled.

I giggled, confusion forgotten. Life was fun.

* * *

**Note that Turmeric's real name doesn't get spoken. This is deliberate, as Names=Bad Things when Fae are involved. Safer to go by aliases and monikers. And Kawahira gets mentioned, yay!**

**Next chapter: Tsuna!**


End file.
